


Come Away With Me

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Canon Disabled Character, Domestic Fluff, Episode: s04e20 Terra Incognita, First Time, Hot Tub Sex, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Men Crying, Motorcycles, Road Trip, Romance, Root/Shaw mentioned, Season/Series 04, Thanksgiving, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 10:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8664319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: Snow to Reese in 1x10 Number Crunch: “Surprised you ended up in New York City. Thought you'd get yourself a cabin in the woods-”Ghost!Carter to Reese in 4x20 Terra Incognita: "Happy, hopeful. In love. You can feel that way again, John. You just got to hold on. There are people who care about you, who can love you. Just got to let them in."John and Harold get together after John’s closest brush with death in the Catskill Mountains.





	1. Tuesday 25th November 2014 - John

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an S4 AU where Shaw escapes Samaritan before they can hurt her.
> 
> Inspired by the tags xlostlenore wrote on [this post](http://xlostlenore.tumblr.com/post/153381443983/poistills-stills-of-interest-cod-2x09): #i can't stop imagining #john and harold going on motorcycle rides #and being all romantic 
> 
> Title from Norah Jones.
> 
> I meant to post this on Thanksgiving, sorry it’s a bit late.

John finished off the last bit of paperwork and passed the pen back.

Helena tucked the forms into her folder and then lightly clapped her hands together. “So, it's all yours!” Her bleached blonde hair fell across her eyes as she leaned across the counter to shake John’s hand. “Hunter ski resort is just fifteen minutes away if you're into that. Are you a skier?”

John shook his head. “No. I can ski, but that's not why I'm here.” He didn't intend to say any more, but she looked at him with such bright, open blue eyes that John found himself spilling his guts.

"I want to surprise my partner,” he admitted, as Helena handed over the keys. "He doesn't know how I feel about him yet."

"Awwww, that's amazing!"

Once he had started, he couldn't seem to shut up. "Am I mad, to spring it on him over the holidays? I figure it would be better in a place like this, where he can...process? He's a workaholic and almost never catches a break..."

"Oh wow. If he doesn't snap you up, he's a fool. You said he’s a professor?"

John thought about Harold’s endless irritation with his cover and smiled. “Yeah.”

Helena smiled back. “A professor and a detective. That sounds wonderful. Well, best of luck!” She shouldered her bag and opened the door, on her way out. Then she paused on the threshold, pointing. "And if he does end up needing to work, the wifi password's on the fridge."

John grinned. "Thank you."


	2. Wednesday 26th November 2014 - Harold

The day before Thanksgiving, Harold was down in the subway catching up on his marking. The few students who had bothered to turn in their term papers had done a passable job. Even so, he was wilting with boredom. At the sounds of footsteps on the stairs, he was almost grateful for the interruption. Harold was expecting to be witness to another of Root and Shaw’s little lovers tiffs. They were very amusing, if baffling. Ms. Shaw had escaped unscathed from Samaritan’s clutches and Root was overjoyed, so why the two women kept fighting, Finch couldn't fathom.

But it wasn't Root and Sameen. It was Mr. Reese. John was in leather jacket and black jeans instead of his customary suit, which was the first sign that something was off.

Some weeks ago, John had recovered from his ordeal on the Chase Patterson number. He’d gone back to work before he was ready, in Harold’s opinion, but there was no telling him. Why Reese wasn't at work today was about to become apparent.

He stepped into the train car and held onto the overhead rail with one hand, as though he expected the train to move off at any moment. “Harold, fancy getting out of the city?”

Harold finally put his pen down and stopped pretending to scribble corrections in margins. “Why? Do we have another Washington number?”

John smiled. “No. I thought a road trip.”

“Whatever for?”

Reese shrugged. “Fun. We don't get enough of it these days.”

Harold was about to point out that they were in the middle of an AI war, they didn't have time for fun. But John looked so excited. He almost never looked like that. Especially not recently.

Wary, but willing to play along, Harold stood up. “Alright.” He had to brush past John to step out of the carriage and fetch his coat. Once the coat and scarf was on, Harold picked up his hat.

Reese frowned. “Oh, you better leave that here.”

“Why?”

He crossed his arms. “Trust me, you won’t need it.”

“But it’s cold out.”

John gave Harold a stern look which he usually reserved for troublesome numbers such as Leon.

They stared each other down until Harold gave in and slowly returned the hat to its hook. John was acting very strange.

Harold got Bear’s leash but again John shook his head. “Bear’s not coming with us.”

“What?” Harold was more than disappointed at this news. He got precious little time to spend with the dog as it was. “Well, I better top up his food bowls for the rest of the day.”

“He’ll be fine, Harold.”

Harold ignored him.

\---

When they emerged onto the street, John led him a winding route through the shadow map. For the first time ever while they were not in immediate danger, he forgot to match his walking pace to Harold’s. Finch struggled to keep up with him. By the time they reached their destination, Harold was short of breath and hurting.

They had stopped beside a sleek black sports car, sitting in a parking spot. John stepped up to it and put his hand in his pocket. Harold naturally assumed he was getting his lock-picking kit.

“We’re not stealing this!” He hissed.

But somehow, John had a key. “No, Harold. It’s mine.”

How could he possibly…? John Riley was supposed to live on a detective’s salary. None of their assets before Samaritan could be touched. That was the rule.

John held the passenger door open for him. Harold swallowed his protests and got in. The black leather seats were brightened up by wide blue stripes. The car had heavy-duty seat belts, the type that went over your shoulders as well as around the waist. By the time Harold figured out how to buckle in, John had started the engine.

“At least tell me where we’re going.”

“It’s a secret.”

Harold lost his patience with this. “Since when do we have secrets?” He snapped, then instantly regretted it. It wasn't even about today, really. Harold was thinking about the unexplained distance between them the last few months, turning almost into distrust. He was picturing John in that car with the gunshot-splintered window, covered in blood and pale as ice, all because he had shut Harold out.

John was calm. “Harold. Remember that time you bought me an apartment for my birthday without consulting me?”

“I…”

“Yeah. Just relax. I want you to enjoy this.”

Harold…did not enjoy himself. Embarrassed by his outburst, but still mad at John, he sat and looked out of the window. To cover the strained atmosphere, John put on some awful sort of country music. Even though he was sure John would have let him change the station if he asked, Harold suffered it in silence.

The sports car didn't make sense until they made it out of the city and away from its endless traffic jams. They went North on Route 87, which at least told Harold they were headed upstate. Before he knew it, they had open road ahead of them. John stepped on the gas and the secret speed freak inside Finch began to wake up and rejoice. John changed lanes with skill and precision, swiftly overtaking the few other motorists around. He was showing off a little bit, Harold realized. After Reese pulled off a particularly risky move and winked across at Finch, he knew it.

In less than an hour, they arrived in Kingston. They pulled over at a showroom forecourt, surrounded by other sports cars for hire…and Harold abruptly realized how John had been able to afford it. Once again Harold struggled with the seat belt, so that John had time to go all the way around and open his door for him. He gripped Harold’s wrist and helped him up. Harold had quite forgotten the pain in his hip, sat in the comfy padded leather seats, but standing up brought it all back.

“Are you okay?” John asked, perhaps noticing the discomfort in Harold’s face. Harold nodded. He let John close his door for him and was surprised but grateful when he draped an arm around Harold’s shoulders and walked slowly with him.

John didn't let go of him even once they were inside. A bell tinkled above the door as they stepped through it, and moments later someone came to greet them.

“There he is! Right on time.” It was a young, skinny man wearing overalls and carrying a torque wrench. When he turned sideways Harold could see he was wearing a personalized home-made t-shirt that read _LeRoy: The King of Kingston_.

“Hey!” John’s arm dropped from around Harold’s shoulders as he went to clap the young man on the back.

John introduced them. “Leroy, this is Harold.”

Leroy was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, black and very fond of body piercings. He had at least five in each ear and three in his nose. Harold privately thought this was quite dangerous for a mechanic. He could get his head stuck in an engine if one of those rings caught. But to each their own.

Leroy shook Harold's hand. "So John's _your_ boy. I wondered who he was saving himself for."

Taken aback, Harold tried to glare at John, but John was already striding off amongst the rows of cars and bikes, in search of something.

“It’s out the back!” Leroy called after him. He evidently knew what John was looking for.

Harold appealed to Leroy. “He’s told me nothing about what I'm doing here.”

“You’ll find out in just a second. Found it?!” He yelled in John’s general direction, who had disappeared out the back door.

A muffled yell came back. It sounded positive.

They made their way outside.

Leroy said: “You've ridden before, yeah?”, which was the only warning Harold got before he turned the corner and…saw John astride a truly impressive motorcycle.

“Ta-da!” John said, a huge beaming grin all over his face. He’d done up his leather jacket and put gloves on. He looked ready and raring to go. Harold remembered the way he’d said ‘road trip’ and the rush he’d been in to get here on time. John had planned this, every detail. They were clearly on a schedule. It…reminded Harold of the scavenger hunts he used to put together for Grace.

Harold blinked. He turned to Leroy, but he was no help whatsoever. Leroy just leaned close to his ear and muttered “Enjoy it, man. If I could change places…” He moved back and gave John the thumbs-up. “Later, Riley!”

John waved. Leroy left them to it.

“So, what do you think?”

“I'm speechless,” Harold said, and John grinned some more.

“The last time you were on one of these you said it was ‘exhilarating’. But you never did get yourself one.”

That…that was _years_ ago. And John remembered while Harold hadn't, until now.

“Gonna hop on, then?” John said, softly.

Harold realized he’d been staring at John in somewhat of a daze. He snapped out of it and moved. Harold climbed on behind him, hands gripping John’s broad shoulders for balance. He had to sit quite close to avoid toppling off the back. He knew Root and Shaw had ridden bikes this way.

“Mr Reese, just out of interest, why does your friend think you and I are a couple?”

John sounded sheepish. “I may have… forgotten to correct him, one time. He was hitting on me and you happened to call about a number…”

“I see.”

John passed him back a helmet. “Put this on.”

Harold took it. “So this is why you made me leave my hat behind.” He removed his glasses and tucked them securely into an inside pocket of his coat.

John was already pulling his helmet on, but Harold stopped him. “Wait! What if I want to stop and get off? You won’t be able to hear me.”

John considered this. “Pull the back of my collar,” he offered, demonstrating with his jacket. Before he pulled his helmet on all the way, he added: “Might wanna hold on tight around my waist. Just to be safe.”

Harold put his helmet on. Then he hooked his right hand around his left wrist and gripped it as tightly as he could.

John kicked the side stand out from under the bike, then started the engine. They set off slowly at first, trundling through the back-lot which was littered with rusting engines and spare parts. Once they hit the road, though, they zipped along. Aside from the obligatory waiting at stop lights, it felt much more like freedom than being in the car had.

However, he did feel a little conspicuous, surrounded by small-town paraphernalia: mini-marts, and rundown gas stations, and large houses with white picket fences. He clung to John and trusted him to take them…wherever they were going to go.

They got back on the motorway, which was lined with a huge amount of trees on either side. They kept to the speed limit, which was plenty, the way Harold’s coat was flapping out behind him. The road was straight and smooth and level, and Harold began to feel less afraid that he would fall off. He slightly loosened his death grip and he could feel John laughing.

The further they went, the steeper the banks of trees on either side became. Harold realized they were climbing. Green hills began to rise up in the distance. They had left the smooth motorway and were onto a dual carriageway, cracked and stressed with the unevenness of the ground on which it was built. Houses flew by, fewer and further between, until it was steep green slopes in every direction. Harold foolishly looked down one and abruptly had to tuck his face in the back of John’s shoulder, closing his eyes. Then the road flattened out again, and there were truck stops and gas stations in abundance once more. John didn't stop at any of them: he had clearly chosen a bike with a big enough tank that they didn't need to.

They passed a boarded-up church, painted all in white, peeling off now. The highway had clearly ruined its sense of sacred ground. The tree coverage grew taller and thicker, and the lanes narrower. Small dark brown wooden cottages popped up here and there. Large patches of partially melted snow covered grass verges.

Then the road began to curve sharply to the right, and the bike had to tilt a lot to keep up with it. Harold resumed his tight grip on John’s ribs. Thankfully, they soon hit a gentle, straight, downhill stretch and the view was too breathtaking to worry about anything.

Further along, there appeared to a gathering of Harley Davidsons taking place at the side of the road - some of the bikers hollered at their lone bike as it went by, but nobody tried to follow them, as Harold initially feared.

Soon the road narrowed from four lanes to two, and they had to slow down. By this time Harold’s hands were frozen solid, and there was no hope of letting go of John to find the gloves in his coat pockets. He was grateful for the wind not whipping them quite so thoroughly, nonetheless.

After some time, Harold realized the blue haze in the distance he was seeing was a body of water, not a misty incline. That clue plus a few too many signposts advertising mountain trails, and Harold had guessed where they were. It was a completely different route to the one he had taken with Root and Fusco, and back then it had been dark. In any case, he had been too focused on his laptop screen, trying to triangulate John’s likeliest location, in the event that Lionel’s best guess turned out to be wrong.

They needed to talk. He fisted his left hand in John’s jacket, and carefully lifted his right arm to tug on the back of John’s collar.

John put his left hand up briefly to indicate he understood, and then set about finding a safe place to pull over.

They turned off down a beaten track which happened to go right to the water’s edge. There was even a wooden bench.

John brought the bike to a stop, pressed down the side stand and took off his helmet. Harold slid his helmet off too. He stopped leaning against John’s back, realizing how stiff his neck and shoulders were. His arms were sore, after so long holding on tight. He retrieved his glasses from his pocket and then lifted his sleeve to check his watch. He was surprised to learn they had only been going for about forty-five minutes.

He slid off the back of the bike and John followed suit, balancing their helmets on the seats. Harold brought his hands together in front of his mouth and blew on them, rubbed his fingers. John had got his phone out and was taking photos of the water. The view really was stunning.

The reservoir went on for miles. Harold realized it had stretched parallel to the road for as long as they had been on it, hidden by the thick forest which surrounded it. Historically, he knew it was the largest and oldest man-made reservoir which supplied water to NYC, but that was where his general knowledge ended.

They sat together on the bench.

“Why have you brought me to the Catskills, John?”

“Replacing bad memories with good ones?” John said lightly, but then he grew more somber. “I did a stupid thing. This is my apology.”

Harold looked out across the sublime expanse of water and sighed. “This is more than an apology. Besides, I should have found you sooner.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harold saw John shake his head. He appeared despondent. An all too familiar expression, and a stark contrast to the rare excitement he displayed earlier.

“Harold, while I was up here before…I saw Joss.”

Harold focused on him sharply. “John, Joss is -”

“Dead, I know. I was hallucinating, it was the hypothermia. I still saw her. We talked.”

“Oh.” Harold’s voice wobbled a little. He didn't know how to respond to that.

“She said I could be happy and in love again, if only I let people in. I’ve spent my whole life pushing people away, trying to avoid getting close, so the inevitable loss wouldn’t hurt as much.”

Harold could relate. He continually lost the people he loved - after Grace and Nathan, he had vowed no more. And then, somehow, by accident, he found himself with a family again. A family which was shortly rocked by the loss of Joss Carter and the presumed loss of Sameen Shaw, before she had made her way back home to them.

“You know me better than anyone ever has. I've never had to struggle to tell you about me because you already knew it all when we met. And you stayed. Even when you should have cut and run, you kept coming back for me.” John was getting seriously emotional by this point, and Harold’s heart was pounding.

John stood up hastily and turned his back on Harold. He bent his head over the water and the previously unbroken surface of the lake developed circular ripples.

Harold got to his feet. Carefully, he limped closer until he was standing at John’s side. He could see John’s jaw working, the tears on his cheeks.

John took a shuddering breath and lifted his head. “Harold, you’re my favorite person in the whole world and I'm sorry if I've overstepped but I have to take the chance -”

Harold lifted his hand to the back of John’s neck and tucked John’s face down against his shoulder. “Shh, shhh. It’s alright. You don’t have to say anything more.”

John sobbed, and his entire frame trembled.

Harold rubbed his back and murmured soothingly until John quieted. He drew back, seeming thoroughly embarrassed. He made to rub his eyes with his hand but then Harold offered his handkerchief.

Harold cleared his throat. “How long have you felt this way?”

John dried his face and rubbed his chin. “Since…always. Since we met. And I thought maybe I got over it, but then…I nearly died and I just wanted to see you.”

Harold’s eyes widened. His heart had long since turned over in his chest, but now it gave a painful squeeze. He hadn’t known. How could he not have known?

He kissed John’s cheek, just a chaste brush, and the joy rushed back into John’s face as though Harold had cast a powerful spell on him.

“When you told Harper we were partners and she took it the wrong way, I realized I wanted her to be right.” John added, as though he had figured out that the best way to get Harold to kiss him again was to keep talking.

Harold kissed him again. He missed and mostly got John’s chin, but John tilted his head down and corrected it, and then there was nothing to do but drink each other in.

John was smiling when Harold let go of him. Harold touched his elbow. “Come away from the edge. I’m not fishing you out of here if you fall in.”

John laughed. He followed Harold back towards the bike and Harold dimly remembered to put his gloves on. Cold hands seemed insignificant next to John’s baring his heart to him. He was…very glad they had had this talk.

He turned around to face John again. “Come here.”

John came to him and Harold just held him. He was still feeling the aftershocks of guilt and heartbreak…that John had suffered for so long while Harold had the power to heal it. Having John in his arms made that guilt lessen. But they had an awful lot of lost time behind them.

Harold’s stomach rumbled. John patted it with the back of his hand. “Are you hungry?”

Harold thought back to that morning. “I’m afraid I skipped breakfast.”

“We’d better move, then. Pancakes?”

“Sounds fine.”

They got back on the bike.

Near-death hallucinations aside, he found it hard to imagine Joss advising John to date Harold, of all people. Although he did remember her teasing him: _John’s not his usual cheery self without you around._ If Joss were still alive, would she have given them her blessing?

They rejoined the road and within twenty minutes they were pulling up outside Phoenicia Diner. Harold ran his gaze through the menu and despite the promise of pancakes, he ordered the Eggs Benedict, just to watch John cover his own face with both hands to keep from laughing.

“Do you ever eat anything else?” He whispered agitatedly, when the waitress had moved on.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Harold replied automatically, and realized half a second later he was…flirting. With John Reese. It couldn’t be this easy.

John waited until after he had finished his eggs to spring the next surprise on him.

"Ready to see the house now?"

Harold remembered John’s earlier mention of the apartment Harold had given as a birthday gift. He had thought that was just for comparison, to put John’s excesses in perspective. Apparently not. "There's a house?"

John smirked. "You thought we were heading back to the city after this, huh?"

“Well, no, I wasn’t…I wasn’t thinking ahead.” Harold said. He always tried to think several steps ahead. Their survival depended on it. Was it possible that for once he was enjoying going with the flow?

“It’s okay, Harold. You’re allowed a vacation.”

The last few pieces of the treasure hunt slotted into place. "We're staying there for Thanksgiving? And you did all of this without my noticing?"

John shrugged. "Well, the Machine noticed. I asked her to keep it between us."

"But...I haven't packed anything."

John traced his fingertips across the tabletop in random patterns. He avoided meeting Harold’s eyes. "I may have arranged for our stuff to be brought up."

Harold sat there, flabbergasted. “You…you…”

John tapped the table with one long finger. “This is exactly the sort of thing you would normally do, and now you’re mad that I got there first.”

Harold wanted to protest, but concluded there was little point in arguing. “Yes.”

Resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm, John slowly smiled at him. Harold’s heart flipped over in his chest again.

To distract himself, Harold waved for the bill. John slid it out of his reach the moment it landed on the table.

“You’re not going to let me do _anything_ , are you?” He watched John lay out the cash on the little tray.

“I don’t know. I might let you take charge of some things. If you play your cards right.”

So the flirting was apparently going in both directions now. And that wasn’t all. As Finch got up from their booth and put his coat on, John checked out his ass. Harold made sure John knew he had caught him looking. He attempted a disapproving frown, but it wasn’t very successful. John followed him out of the restaurant.

Seated on the bike once more, Harold put his arms around John again and seriously considered what he was offering. As they rode off, he thought about how easy it would be, to slide his hand down from John’s belly. Feel what John felt like, with all that power between his thighs. But visions of John losing control of the bike and spinning them off onto rough road kept the bizarre temptation at bay.

It was another short bike ride from the roadside diner. Once they left the public road, the private path was one long winding curve upwards, and John navigated it skilfully, showing off again. The trees here were mostly bare, though some still had orange autumn leaves clinging to them. A squirrel scampered away into the piles of fallen leaves as the bike roared past.

And then they arrived. The tree coverage was so dense the house could not really be seen until they turned a corner and pulled up right in front of it. The foundations seemed to be set on a rocky plateau in the mountainside. There was only one floor, so no stairs to climb. The exterior walls were painted white and the sloping roof was auburn.

Harold hugged his bike helmet to his chest. “John, you didn’t buy this?”

John shook his head. “It's a rental. The owner is a Helena Montague. I checked her background, she's a good person. Married, three grown up kids. No criminal record or debts. Works as a ski instructor.”

The way John rattled off this information, Harold had to ask: “And is she a number?” That was, Harold thought, how _he_ might have done it. Find an excuse for them to pretend to be a couple and then suggest they extend the ‘ruse’ once they returned to the city.

But John was entirely in earnest. “No, I just wanted to make sure we weren't...funding crime or something by being here.”

“How long _are_ we here?”

“Until Monday. Riley took time off.”

Harold considered this. Lectures didn’t start for Whistler again until December, so he didn’t need to call in. Five, six days. A week of just him and John, no numbers, no crises…

“We’re about as private here as it gets. I thought you might prefer that.”

Harold blew out his breath and pushed the helmet carelessly into John’s chest. Without looking back he headed for the front door, eager to see what it was like inside.

“Oh, wait, I-” John called after him.

Harold pushed on the door handle, but of course it was locked. He turned and John was fishing in his jeans pocket. “I have the keys. Sorry, I forgot to give you yours at the diner.” He had tucked Harold’s helmet under his right elbow and had his own in his right hand. He had to put them both down to separate the keys from the ring. There were three, one each and a spare, along with a bright orange fluffy keyring which Harold assumed was the owner’s taste and not John’s.

He stuffed the others back in his pocket and held out the one that would be Harold’s. “Quite a big moment, really,” John said, with a sheepish grin.

Harold took it and kissed him. Even if a week was all they ever had, he knew this was a dream come true for John and - though he hadn’t known it until this moment - for Harold too. A second chance at a normal life meant…everything.

He left John in a bit of a daze when he stepped back to unlock the door. It opened onto a through lounge-dining room, with a kitchen on the left behind a dividing half-wall. The well-varnished wood floor was warmed up with large patterned rugs. In the far corner behind the dining table were two big black couches, set facing each other either side of a long coffee table. Beyond them, a wall of windows and a _view_. It was only trees, and mostly bare ones at that, but Harold hadn’t seen so many in one place since the outskirts of the farm he’d grown up on. On the bike it had been different, viewed through the window of the helmet’s visor, but now he could take in all of it at once, and with his glasses on. His gaze dropped more towards ground level. There was a large wooden decking area and…Harold went to the sliding glass doors and stepped outside again. A little stream trickled down past the house, over the rocks beneath the raised veranda. Harold’s mouth hung open. He turned back. John was watching his reaction.

“You like it?”

“John, I…how did you find this place?” He came back into the warm and closed the door behind him.

John shrugged. “When I first joined the army, I had a mate in another company who hadn’t been deployed abroad yet. They were drafted in to help fight forest fires. He told me about it. Not exactly where, but I did some digging.” As he spoke, John wandered across the room to lean against the back of a red couch. Harold did a double-take and realized there was another alcove tucked away behind the kitchen, with seating and a television.

“What happened to him?” Harold asked, half afraid of the answer.

“Oh, he died,” John said, “about a year later in action.” He scratched his temple, screwed up his mouth. “Sorry.”

“No, no, I shouldn’t have…” But Harold’s curiosity was getting the better of him. “Was he your first…?”

John blinked in surprise. “No, we weren’t. I mean, I liked him. That was all.”

Harold looked at the floor, embarrassed. “Right.”

John stood up straight and paced towards him, rested his hands on Harold’s upper arms. “You don’t know everything about me, huh?” He pointed out, playfully.

Harold pressed his fingers to John’s chest, over his heart. “Everything that matters.”

John initiated a kiss this time, short and sweet. Harold sighed and closed his eyes, leaning against him. One turned into several. Harold opened his mouth and John’s tongue nudged at his teeth, tripped over them and explored more deeply. Harold met it with his own, faintly tasted the sweet syrup John had poured on his pancakes.

There was a crash outside. Harold startled and moved away but John just rubbed the back of his own head and bit his lower lip.

Harold stared at him. “What is it now?”

There was a familiar bark and the sounds of claws scrabbling. John opened the door and in rushed…

“Bear!” The dog ran right to Harold’s legs. Finch was so astonished to see him, he didn’t immediately reach down to pet him, but Bear shoved his nose at his hand until he got the message. Scratching vigorously behind Bear’s ears, he said to John: “You said he couldn’t come!”

“Well, he wouldn’t fit on the bike.”

Through the open door, Harold could see Root and Shaw dragging suitcases from their car. He’d been so lost in John, he hadn’t heard them arrive. And now he was thoroughly confused.

Root dropped the case over the threshold with a flourish. “Don’t worry, Harold, we’re not staying. We’re just your personal baggage deliverers, apparently.” She shot a dirty look at Reese, who smirked back.

Sameen wasn’t far behind. “Where do you want this?” She grunted, and John stepped forward to help her. Harold had a heavy dog sitting on his feet and that was his excuse for not moving.

“You could have left it in the car, I would have carried them,” Reese said.  
  
Root brushed her hair off her face. “We would have, only Bear got excited and ran ahead.”

Shaw raised her voice at Root. “Don’t blame the dog!” Next she spoke to Harold. “Root was the one scared to come in, in case you two were already doing it.” Harold did not blush easily, which was just as well. Shaw shut the front door.

Root took off her gloves, brushed her hands together and looked expectantly at Harold. “It all went according to plan, then? You look happy.”

Harold did smile then, a little awkwardly. “Yes, John and I are…”

Root interrupted. “He was so convinced you were going to reject him.”

Harold looked for John, but he’d disappeared into another part of the house with the suitcases.

Sameen snorted, hooking her arm around Root’s waist. “It’s kind of a shame. If you’d said no, we’d have stolen this place.”

This was clearly news to Root. “Would we?”

“Nah, not really. Beach vacation’s more my thing.” She patted Root’s hip and then let go, breezed past Harold and Bear and went to slump onto one of the big red couches, putting her feet up. “I’m starving. When’s dinner, Reese?” She shouted the last part.

Reese’s reply was too far away to be heard.

Harold turned to Root for help. “I’m sorry, what’s…?”

Root smiled at him. “John thought it’d be nice for the four of us to do Thanksgiving a day early. That’s alright, isn’t it?”

Harold neglected to mention that he and John had already eaten barely an hour ago. He wondered why John had done that. To Root’s hopeful expression, he said “Yes, of course!” And then, surprising everyone including himself, Harold reached out and hugged her. At the sudden movement, Bear gave up on Harold and went to lie down with Shaw.

Root hugged him back, squeezed him tight. “Aww, Harry. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you.”

Meanwhile, Shaw had switched on the television and started flicking channels.

“Hey, Root, your favorite show’s on!”

Root let go of Harold with one more friendly pat and rolled her eyes.

Sameen was being sarcastic. It had been discussed at length just how much Root despised this particular program for its unrealistic hacking portrayals. Harold had once listened to her rant about it for twenty minutes without stopping.

Root went to lean over the back of the same couch Shaw was lying on. They began to playfully wrestle for control of the remote.

Harold smiled fondly at their bickering and then left in search of John. There was a corridor which led to the other half of the house, with four doors branching off it. There was a light on in the furthest room and he walked towards it.

The master bedroom had wood floors and rugs just like the main living area. The king sized bed took up less than half the available space. There was a television on a chest of drawers in the corner, and a big square armchair pointed at it. There were a lot of windows, but the curtains had been closed over all of them.

John was on his knees on the bed, bent over an open suitcase which was full to the brim.

Knowing how terrible Reese was at packing, as in, he always brought too little, Harold was taken aback at the amount of clothes on the bed. “Did you pack all that?”

John glanced up at him. “Uh, I think Root did. I was looking for my apron.”

Harold suddenly found his shoulders shaking with laughter. “You let Root pack both our belongings for a week?” He went to perch on the bed and picked through the piles John had turned inside out. He didn’t know Reese even owned this many clothes. Of course, he’d had a sizable collection of suits once, all handpicked and tailored by Harold, but those all had to be left behind when they first ran from Samaritan. “Dare I see what she’s put in mine?” He reached for the other case which was unzipped but not open.

John put his hand on the lid before Harold could lift it. “Yeah, don’t look in there.”

“Why not? How bad is it?” He began to worm his fingers through the gap.

John said in a warning tone “Finch, don’t -!”

He flipped the lid up anyway. The first thing he saw - because they were right in the middle and on top - was the enormous box of condoms. John clamped his hand over his eyes.

Harold looked at the box for a moment. “Well, I imagine they’ll prove useful.” He said dryly, pleased when John’s ears went very red.

Harold’s eyes scanned across and…”Aha. My hat!” He flipped it up and put it on. He’d missed it today, and was glad he wouldn't have to spend a week without it. Underneath that were several of Whistler’s suits, undershirts, socks and pants. Nothing objectionable at all.

“Now, about this apron.” He turned back to John’s mess, intending to help him search. Before he could, John plucked at the brim of his hat, tossed it back in the case, and kissed him clumsily. Still close to laughter, Harold chuckled and let himself be kissed. The angle was too awkward to tolerate for long, he simply couldn't turn his neck far enough, but he stroked John’s arm with his fingertips until he was released. “What was that for?”

“Just…you. Being you.” He met Harold’s eyes in a particular way which Harold had seen before, but only now knew what it meant.

“You realize we've two hungry guests which you've offered to feed?” Harold reminded him.

John stared at him for a few more seconds before he snapped out of it. “Yeah. Oh, yeah.” He slid off the bed - Harold was glad to see he’d removed his shoes - and started to pick things up again.

“Speaking of,” Harold added, “how come they knew how you felt before I did?”

“They knew before I told them.”

“How so?”

“Root said she knew when I found you at the train station, and Shaw since she walked in on you fixing my bow-tie before that museum thing.”

Harold waved a dismissive hand. “Ohhh, but those were such a long time ago.” They were clearly teasing him.

John couldn't seem to look at him. “Yeah, it was.”

Harold felt suddenly wretched for him. Had he really been unknowingly hurting John all this time?

“Found it!” John said, holding up a blue-and-white striped apron with frayed strings. He checked his watch, slipped his feet back into his boots. “I’d better get a move on.” He gave Harold a pat on the back and then left the room.

“Well.” Harold said to himself, under his breath. He pulled the nearest item of John’s clothing onto his lap, which happened to be a light blue polo shirt. He refolded it, and rubbed the edge of the collar between thumb and forefinger. “Well,” he murmured again, and recognized that he felt like crying. How close they had come to never acknowledging this at all.

He unpacked for both of them. He was surprised to find a pair of swimming trunks at the bottom of his case, the only thing that didn’t belong. They were still in the packaging. It was especially odd because since his injury Harold had been unable to go swimming. He could only assume Ms. Groves intended them for idle amusement, much like the condoms and lubricant.  
  
He tidied everything away, grateful for the time alone to think. John might have been coming to terms with this for years, but Harold was having to do it in the space of an afternoon and people kept throwing curveballs at him. He prided himself on remaining calm in a crisis, was able to do so even while the rest of the team embarked on reckless revenge missions.

This…this wasn't a crisis. It was a perfectly lovely thing to happen. But there were reasons it wasn't a particularly smart idea. If it fell apart could they successfully go back to being friends without resenting one another and breaking up the team? And there was the age difference. He was older than John by roughly the same amount as John and that Leroy character. Plus, their original employer/employee arrangement. He no longer paid John to help him with the numbers, but he remained on shaky moral ground. He had come into John’s life at a point when he was vulnerable. It was perhaps understandable for feelings to have developed under those circumstances, but for Harold to have reciprocated John’s feelings back then…no, it was unconscionable.

Maybe…if Harold truly had been oblivious for so long, he had good reasons for it.

His own inability to consider a romantic life after Grace also had to be a factor. And there was John himself - genuinely stunning, could charm any number of intelligent, gorgeous women. The chances of him turning to look at his aging geeky friend with a limp and thick glasses and seeing something attractive seemed staggeringly remote. Even now, even after John had kissed him and Harold had felt the definite spark between them. Part of him feared that once John got Harold’s clothes off he would realize there wasn't much to want here, after all. There would be nothing left to the mystery of the Mr. Finch persona which Harold had cultivated.

He had thought himself, as he often did, into unnecessary misery.

Harold slid his laptop, which Root had also kindly packed for him, underneath the armchair. The suitcases he tucked away in a handy broom closet. Then he switched off the light and headed back to rejoin the others.

\---

It turned out that John had been somewhat overambitious in his plans. He’d stocked the kitchen to bursting, having shopped the day before, but he couldn't prepare a Thanksgiving meal for four people in less than a couple of hours. Luckily he’d bought a turkey crown rather than an entire bird so there wasn't too much work to do there other than cook the thing, but that in itself took time. They all ended up helping. Root proved herself surprisingly adept at chopping up and peeling vegetables - but then again, she always was comfortable with knives. Shaw vetoed John’s idea of pumpkin pie for dessert, and instead offered up her best recollection of her mother’s recipe for sour cherry pie, a Persian favorite. She popped out to get the fresh cherries and when she returned, John helped her with the pastry. It was a real treat to see them working together on something other than blowing things up and shooting people. Harold did a terrible job of the mashed potatoes. Cooking was sadly not part of his skill set, but he did genuinely enjoy washing up the plates and mixing bowls as they went along, for which the others were grateful.

All this meant that they did not properly sit down at the dining table until 6pm, but they were nonetheless a day early. It gave Harold and John time to work up an appetite. Sameen ate her way through an enormous bag of Cheetos beforehand, and still had room for triple helpings of dessert. Bear kept going round and round the table searching for openings until John gave him a plate of turkey all to himself. Then the dog tried to jump on Root’s lap for cuddles and nearly made her drop her glass of wine.

Partway through the meal, Harold excused himself to visit the bathroom, and once he stepped inside he noticed there was both a shower and a hot tub. The hot tub was tucked right under the window. It had clearly been designed so that one could sit there and look out at the view. Now he understood the need for swimming trunks.

Returning to the table, he squeezed John’s hand when it discreetly rested on his knee beneath the tablecloth, and listened to Root talk about her plan to use Caleb Phipps’ compression algorithm to help the Machine… somehow. She hadn't figured out how yet. Sameen fancied the idea of shrinking Samaritan down to the size of a flash-drive and then stamping on it repeatedly. She said it quite calmly but at that point John redirected the conversation onto sports. Harold refused to give him the satisfaction of revealing what his favorite team of any sport was. But he did, along with the two ladies, express his utter disinterest in golf, while John argued that he actually liked it. Harold made a mental note to get him his own set of clubs for a Christmas present. He knew full well that John would probably end up using them for things other than golf.

Before he knew it, it was time for Root and Shaw to leave. It was dark outside and they wanted to get going before it got too late. Harold had really enjoyed spending time with them. They both said long goodbyes to Bear. John wrapped up what was left of the sour cherry pie for Shaw and she took it with her, a precious part of her past.

“We'll leave you boys to it,” Root said, winking at Harold, her hand on the door. Harold swallowed nervously and glanced over at John, who was stacking dishes in the sink. He suddenly couldn't wait for them to be alone again.

“Thank Ms. Shaw for me.” Harold said to Root. “You've both been wonderful to help us out like this.”

“No problem, Harry. Have a good weekend. Bye, John!” She called.

“Bye, Root!” John waved at her with wet hands.

Root joined Shaw in the car and they were gone, Harold waving from the front step. Then he came back inside and locked the door.

“Pass me that towel, I’ll help dry.”

John slid it quickly along the counter and Harold caught it.

It finally struck him how domestic they were being, how much he had missed this. Just…normality. They had found their own version of it at the library, but the subway was just barely livable.

“How are you feeling?” John asked him, quietly.

Harold blew out a breath. “A little overwhelmed. In a good way.”

“It has been kind of a packed day,” John agreed.

“Speaking of packed, how much food did you _buy_?” Harold said, laughing. “What would have happened to it, if I’d…?”

John shrugged. “Helena wouldn't have needed to shop for a while.”

Harold had to squeeze in next to him to put away a plate in a cupboard, and when he straightened up again he put a hand on John’s back and said: “You are an extraordinarily generous man.”

John didn't miss a beat. “No more than you are.”

Harold had no response to that, so he picked up a wine glass and dried it, trying to keep his emotions in check.

Once he felt calmer, he directed John’s question back at him. “And how are you feeling?”

John turned to him with a big smile stretching his cheeks, crinkling his eyes. “Ecstatic.”

Harold nodded. His own face slowly twitched into a wry smile.

\---

They ended up on the couch. They watched tv, although Harold barely took in any of it. He was hyperaware of John’s thigh resting not too far from his. Harold would have liked to rest his head sideways on John’s shoulder but his injury would not allow it.

Eventually, his patience ran out. “May I turn this off?”

John agreed readily and turned his body more to face Harold. His knee did touch Harold’s leg then and Harold reached for it. He dug his nails into the black denim for a moment, gradually relaxed.

Harold looked at John’s dear face, wondering what to say to him. Trying to make sense of the mess of feelings running through him. _The human heart,_ he’d once said, _the greatest mystery of them all._

John spoke first. “There is something I'm worried about.”

Harold’s thoughts stuttered to a standstill. Blank anxiety gripped him. “Oh?”

John held his hand. He stroked Harold’s knuckles for a moment or two, gathering his courage. “Harold, did you only say yes because you don’t want me to be unhappy? Did you ever think of me as anything other than a friend before today?”

Harold blinked at the question. It was a very good one. “Honestly? I…didn't consider this a remote possibility.”

John’s expression shuttered.

Harold hastened to add. “But there have been times when…I have missed you more than is usual between friends. Days when it has felt quite unbearable not to see you, or at least talk to you. And I worry about you, constantly.”

“Me too,” John said, squeezing his fingers.

“But as for…being misleading just to spare your feelings? That would be ridiculous. You would figure out that I was uncomfortable sooner or later and then where would we be?”

John breathed deeply. He looked relieved. “Yeah. Sorry, I knew it was stupid.” He leaned his head against his free hand, elbow on the back of the couch. “But if you’re straight, you’re straight, it’s not something you can just…”

Harold bit the inside of his cheek. Here went another of his secrets. “I'm not exactly straight.”

John’s head snapped up so fast Harold was afraid he’d give himself whiplash. It was obvious he was holding in a barrage of personal questions.

Harold took pity on him. “I won’t go through my entire relationship history with you. It was a long time ago. Will that suffice?”

John darted forward and kissed him hard. Harold touched his face and didn't close his eyes, although John did. It was over in a flash; John’s excitement wasn’t letting him sit still.

Thinking about how very long a time ago it was…was making Harold feel old.

“Can I ask you a question now?”

John made an effort to compose himself. “Sure.”

“Tell me… what do you like about me?” He didn't say _Because I'm having trouble seeing us together, even though I want to get you into bed very badly._

John looked astonished. “You’re a genius! You could be the most silently powerful man on the planet but you choose not to wield it. You can save lives with just your words, change people’s minds. You earned my trust and let me earn yours. You take care of me, all of us, every day. I love you, Harold. I love you.”

Harold stared at him, astonished. That was so much more than and yet not quite what he wanted to hear. His next words were embarrassingly reedy. “But my body-”

“When you wrapped your arms tight around me today. That was…” John made a deep, almost animal noise, and Harold could see the banked arousal in the helpless shifting of John’s hips and shoulders. He looked as though he were desperate to arch his back, but was instead curling forwards, in on himself, trying to suppress the urge. Harold remembered his own stray thought from earlier, on the bike. He’d wanted to slide his hand down and cup John’s crotch.

Maybe…none of it mattered. The disparity between their ages and appearances. Their workplace relationship. His position as John’s benefactor. He wanted John and John wanted him and they would be wasteful, simply ungrateful, to ignore an opportunity such as this.

Harold licked his lips. “Time for bed, I think.” His voice came out almost unrecognizably husky.

John nodded without looking directly at him. The tension between them seemed to crackle like static. John stood up and slid his hands into his pockets. If he was adjusting himself, he was subtle about it. Harold let him get a ten second head-start before walking after him.

At the door to the master bedroom, John paused with his hand held up, indicating ‘wait’. “I know today’s been kinda…fast. There's another bed, if you want to take things more slowly.”

Harold did his best to breathe deeply. He understood what John was trying to do and it wasn't necessary. “No. I'm ready.”

He reached out and entwined their fingers. He tugged on John’s hand and led him into the bedroom, flicking on the light. Harold stopped walking long before they reached the bed, turning so they faced each other in the middle of the floor. John stroked his thumb across the back of Harold’s hand, lifted it between them. He closed his eyes and kissed Harold’s knuckles with a level of devotion that was almost painful to see.

Harold’s breath hitched. His free hand cupped John’s cheek. “Listen, this is important.” John’s eyes opened, met his. “I love you too, John. So much.”

John let his hand go and they kissed again, deeply, slowly. They stood in each other’s embrace, safe and secure. John went on kissing and kissing him, relentless and passionate, until Harold realized he would have to take charge to move this forward. He tugged at John’s hair to separate them. “How would you like me behind you again, as I was earlier today?”

“Oh, god. Yeah. Anything, anything you want.”

Harold gently unhooked John’s arms from his waist.

“Turn around.” John turned to face away from him with all the trust and obedience Harold could wish for. He pressed his chest to John’s back, slid his hands under John’s arms, fingers splayed across his stomach. He kissed the v-shape that John’s hair made at the nape of his neck, and started to very slowly slide the shirt up out of John’s pants. His fingers felt clumsy with the strong need to touch John’s bare skin, but Harold wanted to take his time, wanted this first encounter to be memorable indeed.

He removed John’s shirt and let it drop to the floor. John toed his shoes off. Harold did not remove his own clothing just yet. Harold wanted to be in control of this, the way John had promised to let him.

John was quiet and pliable in his arms, until Harold got to work on his belt. He squirmed, gave a tiny pleading hum.

There was a little mirror on the far wall and Harold caught sight of the two of them in it. John was biting his lip. “It’s okay, make noise if you want to. You said it yourself, it’s so private here. And I’d like to hear you. Very much.”

John’s breath rushed out all at once. _“Harold.”_

“Hmm.” Harold nipped at the shell of his ear, slightly high on John’s desperation.

He got the jeans undone but they were tight enough that they did not slip down John's thighs on their own. Instead of shoving at them, Harold let them stay and simply cupped John through his underwear, tracing the warmth and weight of him as he had wanted to do while on the bike. A spot on the fabric quickly grew damp as Harold stroked his fingers back and forth, John gasping and sighing. He had his arms out behind himself, touching every part of Harold he could reach without turning around. If this happened to be mostly Harold's hips, thighs and backside, neither of them minded.

Harold held him tight around the middle. He tucked his fingers under the waistband of John's boxers and touched skin. John’s hips stuttered forward and one of his hands switched from Harold’s leg to his forearm, urging him on. Harold tugged and pinched at John’s hard cock, playing with him. He couldn't see what he was doing exactly, not being tall enough to peer down over John’s shoulder, but pressed this close against John’s back, it wasn't all that different from pleasuring himself. He let the heel of his hand graze just under the head and reached down for John’s balls, and warmth cascaded up the inside of his wrist and down his fingers. John gasped, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Surprised but gratified, Harold kissed the back of his neck again and murmured “There you are.”

John’s weight rested on him a little more heavily for a moment, and then he got his knees back and groaned. “Sorry, I couldn't last. I’ll do better next time.” He sounded almost ashamed, and Harold wasn't going to allow that.

“That’s quite alright. I've made you wait far too long.” He withdrew his hand from John’s shorts and stepped back from him. John stood on his own legs, slightly wobbly. Harold took out his handkerchief and wiped his hand dry.

Then he retrieved one of the condoms and some lube from the drawer where he’d stashed them earlier and flicked the light off.

“Get into bed, John. I'm going to fuck you.”

John got rid of the rest of his clothes and did as Harold said, while Harold removed only what was essential of his own clothing before climbing in behind him. He got comfortable lying on his right side, pulling the pillows closer. Then Harold stroked his thumb down John’s scarred back in the dark. He had left the container of lube lying between their legs. He opened it, gathered as much as he could between thumb and forefinger and spread John’s cheeks with his other hand. At the first touch to his hole, John shivered and lifted his left leg, giving Harold more room to work.

“Is it too cold?” Harold asked him, trying to rub it warmer in his hand without losing too much on the sheets.

John shook his head. “It's fine. Please, I want -”

Harold tried to soothe him with a little kiss between his shoulder blades. “I know. So do I.”

He prepared John to the best of his ability and then slid the condom on himself, hands shaking slightly. It was tricky enough to remember to go slowly when his heart was thumping with excitement.

He lined up and slid home and almost came instantly at the sensation of being inside John. He snarled at himself and bit his lip and managed to hold off. John’s elbow was moving; he must be touching his cock. Harold pushed deeper, screwing up his face with the effort not to let go. It felt so good. So, so good. John was whimpering, compressed syllables that still sounded like his name. Harold fisted his right hand in John’s hair and held on for both their sakes.

When he tried to speed up, it became too painful for his own hips to thrust so he gripped John’s left hip and rocked him back and forth onto his cock.

John said his name again, loud and clear as a bell. Harold replied unevenly “I'm here, John, I'm here,” and came in a sudden rush, undone by the vulnerability of it, of knowing and being known.

\---

About half an hour later, Harold got out of bed. John had fallen asleep almost at once, wrung out and emotionally exhausted. But Harold’s mind was racing, as was his heart. An almost fierce possessiveness had awakened in him. John was _his_. Nobody else’s. John loved _him_.

He dabbed a damp flannel to clean himself and put on pajamas. This intensity of feeling - which twenty-four hours earlier he had no idea existed - was alarming him. John was probably right, it had happened too fast. But he didn't regret it. Harold wished he could turn the clock back and give them four more years of this.

He wandered into the living area and Bear’s ears pricked up in the gloom. Harold silently went over and stroked them, and Bear settled down again. Outside, it was snowing.

He sat down and watched the flakes falling for a while. White on black. It slowly emptied his mind. When his tired eyes began to ache, he crept back to bed and slept until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still very much a WIP. Suggestions for what you would like to see them do on the rest of their vacation are very welcome. Obviously they’re gonna have some sex. But in between times, y’know? XD I don’t think the rest of the chapters will be as long as this one.


	3. Thursday 27th November 2014 - John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember this ridiculous excuse of mine for a wintertime Rinch smut fest? Yeah, it’s summer and I’m still working on it. I used some of the fabulous comment suggestions from Chapter 2. Scrabble was popular so you got it. Enjoy.

John woke to Harold’s snoring. Finch’s breath was whistling out through one of his nostrils. It was faintly comical and extremely endearing. John rubbed his cheek against the pillow and let himself just watch. Harold was flat on his back beside him, one arm flung out towards John, as though he had reached across in his sleep and missed. He’d put on a navy blue nightshirt at some point. The sleeve had ridden up, so John tiptoed his fingers up Harold’s bare forearm from his wrist. He figured this would be a better way to wake Harold up than anything more intimate, given all that had changed in the last twenty-four hours.

 

Harold didn’t stir. He was deeply asleep. His eyes flicked from side to side beneath their closed lids. Maybe he was dreaming. John wondered what Harold dreamed about, in that enormous brain of his. And whether any of it was about him.

 

John mentally shrugged and decided to let him rest.

 

He stretched, turned onto his back and then grimaced as he felt the slight tug of dried semen on his groin and stomach, from when he came last night. Twice. All in all, he was feeling pretty smug. His ridiculously over-the-top plan had paid off. More than that, Harold had told John that he loved him back.

 

John lay there for a bit and thought about how lucky he was. Then he remembered today was Thanksgiving, so that was appropriate.

 

He got out of bed, careful to pull the covers back up after him so Harold wouldn’t get cold. John was buck naked and the room was chilly. He had to find where Harold had put all his clean clothes.

 

After a quick shower, he dressed in a thick, dark green fleece and gray slacks. He put yesterday’s clothes in the wash and hung up his leather jacket by the door. Bear was waiting to go out so he opened the back door for him. It had snowed heavily overnight; there were about two inches piled up on everything. He realized he’d forgotten to cover up the bike. Harold would probably say it was too dangerous to ride today anyway.

 

John switched on the electric fireplace and it began to warm the house through. He thought he might get started on the pumpkin pie he hadn’t gotten around to making yesterday. They had plenty of other food leftover, but he liked the idea of Harold waking up to the smell of baking.

 

But Harold was awake by now. He shuffled in wearing his pajamas, putting on his glasses. He looked soft and comfortable, and John wanted to wrap his arms around him, so he did.

 

“Good morning, Finch.”

 

“John.” Harold reciprocated the embrace. “I thought perhaps I had dreamed it all, except for being here.”

 

John rubbed his back. “Did you sleep okay?”

 

“Better than I have in months. Years, even.”

 

John smiled at that. “Can I make you breakfast?”

 

Harold’s lips pursed and then relaxed into a very amused smirk. “You _may_. Am I to be waited on for the foreseeable future?” He said, playfully, affecting to be grand.

 

John kissed his temple. “You bet.” He let go of him and headed into the kitchen, while Harold walked towards the big windows looking out over the white hills.

 

“Goodness, look at the snow.” Harold said rhetorically.

 

As soon as he got close to the windows, Bear spotted him and bounded back inside. Harold got the door open just in time. Bear was covered in snow and he shook it off onto the floor. “Oh, you’re soaked!” Harold exclaimed, bending to pet his damp fur.

 

John watched as Harold went to fetch a towel then dried off Bear’s paws and ears and tail, murmuring loving nonsense to him all the while. Bear’s tongue lolled out, enjoying the attention. He jumped onto the couch, squashed himself up against Harold when he sat down, and set his snout on Harold’s lap for more pets.

 

John got a sudden mental image of resting his own head on Harold’s thighs, and felt his face grow hot. He bent over the frying pan and flipped its contents upside down again.

 

\---

 

They ate quietly and companionably. John was surprised by how normal this felt, how easily he could get used to it. Harold kept glancing at him across the table, with this little smile on his face. John wanted to trace the shape of Harold’s lips with his thumb.

 

After breakfast, Harold disappeared into the bathroom to get changed and fix his hair. When he came out again, he looked so much like his usual dapper self that John would not have been surprised if he had pulled out his laptop and produced a new number.

 

But he wasn’t going to work. They were on vacation. John managed to wait all of five minutes before he sank his fingers into Harold’s spiky-gelled hair and mussed it up again. Harold made an initial disgruntled sound at John ruining his handiwork, but it was soon lost in the returned press of his lips, and his hands sliding up the back of John’s fleece. He peeled the garment off over John’s head and tossed it on the nearby couch.

 

“Where did you even find that?” He said indignantly. “It’s hideous.”

 

John shrugged. “It’s cosy.”

 

“You have no sense of style,” Harold added, unbuttoning John’s casual, slightly wrinkled pale blue shirt as though it personally offended him. “Clearly I cannot allow you to dress yourself.”

 

Smirking in surprise as the shirt was pulled from him too, John said “I see that.”

 

Harold only seemed satisfied once he got his hands on John’s bare chest, stroking down his sides, up his back, across his shoulders. John soaked up every touch like a sponge. He let Harold prod and push him until he was leaning against the back of the couch, warmed by Harold’s attention, his slow, lingering kisses. He did not attempt to undress Harold, leaving him in charge. He liked the feel of Harold’s suit against him.

 

They didn’t go any further than kissing. Finch dragged him back down the hall into the bedroom only to rifle through John’s wardrobe in search of ‘more flattering attire’. John sat on the neatly made bed and watched him bustle about. He didn’t know why it mattered, if they were going to be spending the whole day inside. 

 

Harold came over and held out one of his gray shirts in front of him. John stood, slid his arm in the sleeve and let Harold help him into it, fussing with the collar and fastening the buttons. He slid his hands firmly down John’s arms. “There. Better.”

 

John plucked at his cuffs. It was a thicker material than the blue one, more resistant to creases, but he thought of it as a work shirt. He’d just wanted something he’d be comfortable in while cooking. He said as much, and Harold blinked, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He gave a rather pleased chuckle as he set to undressing John again. “I could do this all day,” he remarked, and John felt himself blushing.

  

Harold found him a close-fitting off-white sweater and sat with him on the bed as he put it on. “Will that do? A reasonable compromise…”

 

It was warm and soft and snug, and if he got flour on it it wouldn’t show, although pretty much everything else would. John wasn’t going to argue again. “It’s fine.”

 

Harold beamed. “Thank you for indulging me, John.” He wound an arm around John’s waist and kissed his jaw.

 

John hummed and caught at the end of Harold’s tie. “Do I get to see you in anything other than a suit?”

 

Harold quirked his eyebrows and squeezed John tighter for a moment. “Perhaps later.” He rose from the bed and took his tie off, opening his collar, and the sight of his exposed throat was a bigger tease than John had been prepared for.

 

\---

 

They did make a start on lunch after that. The kitchen was a little small for two people to work in at the same time, and they made use of the proximity in ways they hadn’t been able to yesterday, when there were four of them.

 

By the time they finished preparing and baking the pumpkin pie and reheating the leftover meat, they had worked up an appetite. They set aside some turkey scraps for Bear and tried to eat without overdoing it. John put the television on low for some background noise, a national dog show, and in-between watching it they talked about what to do with all this free time.

 

“We could go explore the mountains, once the snow eases up?” John suggested, and Harold agreed, but said that for today he wanted to stay inside, and for it to be just the two of them. John was fine with that, and then the conversation led to John asking what Harold usually did over the holidays other than work. Harold had to think hard about that, which made John realize how much he had done the right thing, dragging Harold away from work and making sure he took a break. Not that he was any better himself. Soldiers and CIA agents didn’t get holidays.   

 

“Grace and I played Scrabble a few times,” Harold mentioned, wistfully.

 

John pushed aside his tiny spark of jealousy at the mention of Grace. That was years ago. And when was the last time he’d played any kind of board game, except for with Han in the park? “I’d be up for Scrabble. Shame we didn’t bring anything like that with us.”

 

Harold shook his head, chewing on a mouthful of sweetcorn. “We didn’t need to. There’s a box in the back of the closet in the bedroom. I found it yesterday.” He waggled his fork in the general direction, and John perked up at once.

 

“What, really? Good job, Helena.” The rental home owner really had thought of everything, it seemed.

 

“I didn’t think you’d be that interested. Shall we have a go then, after lunch?”

 

\---

 

John should have known better.

 

“How is that a word?” He found himself saying, for the umpteenth time, as Harold attached ‘ileitis’ perpendicular to the left of his ‘birds’.

 

“There’s a dictionary amongst the cookbooks on the shelf in the kitchen, go and see for yourself.” Harold offered, with a determined glint in his eye.

 

“I think I will!” John got up from his chair, exchanging an exasperated look with Bear, who’d been trying to get on the table for the past half hour to see what all the fuss was about. Harold grabbed his collar to keep him on the ground while John flicked through the ‘I’s. “Oh, yeah, very romantic,” he said sarcastically, when he found it.

 

“I didn’t know we were only playing _romantic_ words.” Harold answered, taking a sip of his wine.

 

John sat back down at the table with a huff, bringing the dictionary with him. He had ‘steer’ lined up, which Harold had just blocked. He rearranged his letters again, frowning at the board. Okay, he had a seven. He laid down ‘eastern’ off the E. It netted him seven points, nowhere near enough to catch up with the huge lead built off triple word scores that Finch had somehow accumulated. 

 

He’d barely finished noting down his score when Harold added his next word. “I think ‘teacups’ are romantic.”

 

John held out his palms, arms stretched in the air. “Finally a word mere mortals will recognize!” And then he tried not to look too crestfallen, because he didn’t have any good letters with which to answer that. He checked the board again, looking for openings, but Harold had systematically closed it down at every turn. He glanced in the direction of the dictionary without opening it, hoping for inspiration.

 

Harold clearly caught his look. “Surely not thinking of cheating, Mr. Reese?”

 

John covered his mouth with his right hand. With his left, he fingered the tiles, trying to think of something, _anything_ else. Then, very, very reluctantly, he set down an ‘I’ and an ‘A’ beneath the ‘C’ on teacups. 

 

Harold was way too amused. “Really, John? You’re bringing your old employers into this?”

 

“I don’t have any other options.” He pretty much whined at this point.

 

“Are you sure? Let’s see -” Harold made to stand up and come around to his side of the board, but John instantly pulled his tiles flat, face down on the table.

 

Harold bit his lip. “Only trying to help.” He resumed his seat. “I don’t need to see your tiles to guess what you have. There are only thirty-two tiles left in play, and based on the probability of each remaining letter appearing -”

 

John cut him off, butting his head into his folded arms and groaning loudly. “Finch, you’re killing me here.”

 

Harold’s outstretched hand landed on the back of John’s bent head and ruffled his hair gently. “I didn’t know you were this competitive.” He said lightly.

 

John lifted his head. Harold’s hand slipped down to his cheek and John leaned into it. “I’m not. You’re just too good.”

 

“I only have two letters to put down next,” Harold said, encouragingly. He pinched John’s cheek and then pulled his hand back.

 

Either side of the ‘A’ in CIA, Harold placed a ‘U’ and a ‘T’. John stared at it uncomprehendingly. Leon’s surname had an ‘O’, and besides, he had a vague memory that you weren’t allowed to use proper nouns in Scrabble.

 

“Tau. Nineteenth letter of the Greek alphabet, also a subatomic particle.” Harold explained, cheerfully.

 

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” John began to pick up his letters and stand them upright again. He picked up a couple of letters from the remaining pile to make up his seven - they were ‘J’ and ‘D’. Lovely, easy letters to get at this point in the game. Not.

 

And then he swallowed. There was a dangling ‘F’ in the top right corner of the board which he’d assumed was no use. “So, it doesn’t have to be in English?”

 

Harold slowly shook his head.

 

“In that case, I’ve got an eight,” John said, and laid down all seven tiles in a row. “Feijoada. It’s a kind of Brazilian stew.” He pushed the dictionary towards Harold. “Look it up if you like.”

 

Harold put his hand on the dictionary but didn’t open it. “That’s alright, John, I believe you.”

 

John added up his score. Sixty-nine points. Harold was still far ahead, but the gap was smaller and at least John had managed one unusual word now.

 

Harold actually sat and thought for a minute on his last turn. Finally, John had managed to stump him. He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs. It was impossible not to feel pretty pleased with himself.

 

Harold eventually added ‘nevoid’. It satisfied John to use his last few letters to spell out ‘dick’, making Harold burst out laughing and cover his face with his hands.

 

“Good game,” John said, bumping his knee against Harold’s under the table.

 

Harold had stuck his fingers up under his glasses and was wiping his streaming eyes. “Oh, John.” He gasped between giggles.

 

John felt like he was overflowing with fond exasperation. Harold‘s mind was so quick that John could never have hoped to keep up with him. And that was okay. He knew Harold was good at strategy - stunts like the amazing forward planning required to plant a virus inside the virus Kara used to infect the Machine proved that. But he'd never witnessed Harold's strategic planning applied to Scrabble of all things. Finch had literally owned an entire library. It wasn’t a surprise that his vocabulary was stunning. John realized Harold had been showing off his skills the same way John had shown off his driving manoeuvres yesterday.

 

"You were brilliant," John said, letting his admiration of Harold shine through and replace his irritation. Partly the irritation was staged anyway. Exaggerated for effect. And now he’d made him laugh so hard he was crying.

 

John got up, went around the table and pulled Harold into his arms. Finch’s shoulders were still shaking a little with mirth, his glasses dangling from his fingers. John kissed his closed eyelids, and the tiny salty tear tracks under them. Harold sighed happily and rested his full weight against John, swaying a little on his feet.

 

Carefully, John took Harold’s glasses from his lax grip and rested them on the table with the lenses facing up.

 

When he turned back towards him again, Harold caught John’s chin with his thumb and tilted his head down to be kissed. He tasted of the wine they had been sipping all afternoon. Their tongues met, a glancing slide that sent John’s heartbeat soaring. He planted his feet wider apart, slightly bent at the knees to ease the strain on Harold’s neck, delving deeper with his tongue. A tiny whimper and Harold broke the kiss, breathing rapidly.

 

John ducked his head lower and kissed Harold’s throat. He’d been drawn to it ever since this morning when Harold removed his tie. Had watched him chew and swallow over Thanksgiving lunch. It was such a small area of skin to reveal, and somehow even more attractive for that. He had a whole week to learn new things about Harold’s body. They had the luxury of taking things at whatever speed they liked.  

 

Right now, John wanted to go faster. He gave Harold’s neck one more affectionate nip and drew back, then caught at Harold’s wrists. Finch’s hands were lightly gripping John’s elbows, until John raised them in front of him and linked their fingers together.

 

After a brief puzzled look, Harold realized what John was trying to do and shuffled obligingly backwards. John crowded him against the wall, not entirely gently, and Harold's excited gasp told him he liked that.

 

He held the back of Harold's hands against the wall and pressed himself against Harold all along their bodies. "You are brilliant." John repeated. Harold hummed derisively as if to say he knew this _quite well, thank you, now what are you going to do about it?_

 

John backed off and got down on his knees. A second later, when he realized what was happening, Harold moaned shakily. John placed his hands on the back of Harold’s thighs to steady him. John didn’t bother with the belt. He went for the buttons of Harold’s fly with his lips and teeth. Above him, Harold exhaled quickly and then inhaled deeply, his breaths audible. Through the layers of fabric, John felt the changing shape of Harold’s cock against his face. He got the buttons undone, shoved his nose through the slit, and he could smell him. It was enough to make his mouth water.

 

“John, god, you… _here_?!”

 

John lifted his head from Harold’s groin to look up at him imploringly. “Why not?”

 

Harold cast a glance towards the windows. There were no blinds over them. Harold’s lower half and John were well hidden behind the TV, the dinner table and the other furniture…but perhaps he felt it was too exposed compared to the bedroom. John, for his part, was quite turned on by that.

 

“It’s just trees out there, Harold. Rocks, mountains, snow. Nobody will see us.” He smoothed his hands up Harold’s thighs and back down again, feeling Harold shift his weight back and forth. There were a few beats of quiet uncertainty. John began to think Harold was too private, he was asking for too much, he wouldn’t…but they could easily move this to the bedroom. Reese wouldn’t mind that at all.

 

The next moment, Harold made a low keening sound. Until that point, he’d left his hands against the wall where John pinned them. Now they dove into his trousers, shoved his underwear out of the way, and presented his erect cock to John’s lips.

 

John couldn’t resist winking cheekily up at him. Harold’s face was flushed, he looked almost furious, but very, very turned on. John rewarded him with a slow, circular, teasing flick of his tongue around the tip. Harold grunted. His fist briefly tightened around the base, the sight of which made John shiver on his knees. Those hands had touched him last night in the dark, but John hadn’t seen any of that, only felt it.

 

The weight of Harold’s dick in his mouth felt good, too. Harold let go of himself and gripped the back of John’s head, hips arching and then sinking back against the wall. John’s hands wandered, up the curve of Harold’s ass, but his focus was on sucking. Harold’s gasps and choked-off whines were more than enough encouragement. John was good at giving head, he knew that, but he hadn’t counted on how _right_ it would feel to do it for Harold. His own erection was straining at the confines of his pants, but there was no time to do anything for it. Harold was thrusting into his mouth with increasing abandon, passion contorting his face.  

 

He gave an uneven warning. “John, I’m-”

 

John hummed his assent, and hollowed his cheeks.

 

Harold let go by degrees. His grip on the back of John’s neck grew painfully tight, and his hips stilled. He made a noise that sounded like “Gnugh”, and then his seed flooded John’s mouth. He swallowed slowly, letting it fill him up, sating a need he’d been carrying around for years. Once it slowed, John dropped his jaw, intending to release him, but the movement set Harold off again. His cock gave a few more satisfying spurts. His fingernails raked through John’s hair. He had surrendered to sensation, and John had never witnessed anything more beautiful.

 

Harold fell back against the wall, letting go of John and panting at the ceiling. His knees had held him up, but his feet were gradually slipping on the smooth wood floor. John pressed his hands against Harold’s ankles, steadying him as he recovered his strength.

 

John could feel the throb of his own pulse in his cock. He gradually caught his breath, hiding his face against one of Harold’s thighs. He was flying high, almost lighter than air. Close to his face, he felt Harold tuck himself away, put his clothing back to rights, but he didn’t open his eyes until Harold touched him again.

 

“Up you get,” he murmured, rubbing at what he could reach of John’s back. “I’m afraid I’m not quite built for kneeling. If you could make it to the bed, I’ll see to you at once.”

 

John groaned. The gentleness of Harold’s voice, the return of his composure so soon after incoherence. The image of Harold laying him out on the bed, in the daylight…

 

He accepted the offered hand up. He stood, his knees protesting, but only slightly. Harold’s free hand touched him as he rose, fleeting pressure at his face, his chest, his arm, his hip. As Harold’s hand traveled closer to his groin, John’s self-control frayed, and for a moment he once again used his body to trap Harold between himself and the wall, grinding against him. Harold’s breath stuttered, but he only laid a firm kiss on John’s jawline and reiterated: “Bedroom.”

 

So John went. He moved far too quickly for Harold, on purpose. By the time Harold appeared in the doorway, John had pulled the Harold-approved white sweater off over his head and stripped out of his gray trousers, his undershirt and shoes and socks. He sat down on the end of the big bed with his legs spread wide and let Harold get a look at him.

 

Harold had retrieved his glasses from the dining table. He closed the door behind himself and moved to stand between John’s legs. He didn’t look shy, or hungry, or even impressed. He was calm. He studied John like he might a canvas, but one he could stroke.

 

Harold’s thumb lingered over the scars left behind by John’s most recent set of stitches, his souvenir from the freezing, awful night which had finally prompted him to confess his feelings. The wound had healed, the stitches gone, and here was Harold.

 

John slid his hands under the vest and drew him closer.

 

Harold’s eyes darted up to look into his, and then his mouth twitched into a smirk.

 

John had left his tight black boxer-briefs on. Without breaking eye contact, Harold dipped his hand inside and retrieved John’s cock and balls, letting them dangle over the fabric. John managed not to shiver at the stimulation. Instead, he was letting himself drown in the blue irises behind the glasses.

 

Then Harold glanced significantly down. His eyebrows rose. His smirk gave way to a playful tone, definitely impressed now. “My, my, Mr. Reese. Your height and shoe size do not disappoint.”

 

John’s ears grew hot. “Stop making me wait, then.” He drawled. Out there Harold had said _at once_.

 

Harold toed his shoes off and put his palms on John’s bare shoulders. “Down,” he said, and pushed. John let himself flop onto his back, his dick bouncing almost painfully with the movement. Then Harold was on top of him, fully clothed, kissing him without warning and jacking his cock with a speed and pressure that suggested he intended to make good on his word.

 

John came all over Harold’s suit.

 

When his brain returned from cloud nine, Harold was still lying on top of him, head on John’s chest, smiling in a way he’d never seen before. Was this…utterly contented Finch?

 

Carefully, John turned them both onto their sides so he could better look at him. The sight was…pornographic. Most of the mess was concentrated over Harold’s own groin, but a few  pale white lines had shot up onto the vest, the buttons, the shirt cuff. His stomach twisted. He couldn’t recover that fast, but hell, he wanted to peel Harold out of his layers and do it all again as soon as possible.

 

Harold lifted a hand to his face and stroked John’s cheekbone, endlessly fond.

 

John swallowed. “You’re not bothered about the suit, then?”

 

Harold laughed. “You have an odd conception of my priorities, John. Besides, this is one of Professor Whistler’s, not a big favorite of mine. If I have to retire it, I shall.”

 

John glanced at the damp material between Harold’s legs and thought that was probably for the best. He’d never look at this suit the same way again.

 

“And now…” Harold said, pushing himself up onto an elbow, for long enough to grasp the other half of the bedcovers and wrap them around the both of them. “I shall enjoy a short nap.”

 

It was John’s turn to laugh. “You don’t want to get changed first?”

 

“No,” Harold replied easily, already entangling his limbs with John’s.

 

John managed to free his arm long enough to check his watch. It was only 16:36. He wasn’t tired.

 

Harold tugged John’s wrist back inside the improvised blanket cocoon and held his hand. “Are we on vacation, or aren’t we?”

 

John didn’t think he could fall asleep. But with a dozing Harold in his arms, he soon did.

 

\---

 

About an hour later, Harold’s warmth left the bed and John grew chilly. Although Harold was using the shower in the ensuite, John didn’t have to wait for him to finish. There were two other bathrooms in the spare rooms along the hall. Nevertheless, he stayed put. He didn’t want to miss seeing it this time when Harold came back out with messy, damp, unstyled hair. 

 

When he emerged, Harold had changed into pajamas again. The bedside lamps were off but the snow on the ground outside was reflecting hazy white through the closed curtains, making the most of the gathering dusk. It was…a moment. He wanted to take a mental snapshot and save it for the darker days to come in the war against Samaritan. Harold’s glasses catching the little light. The hint of a shy smile. John, naked, relaxed, free from any pain.

 

He watched as Harold went to the dresser and found him some sleepwear. He stood near the foot of the bed and offered the pile to him. “Get cleaned up, John. I’ll remake the bed.” John sat up and accepted the clothes. Once again Harold was choosing for him and he didn’t mind. He untangled himself from the blankets and got up. He didn’t need to see Harold’s eyes to feel they were lingering on him. Harold’s fingertips loosely caressed his hip as he went by.

 

The door closed between them and John let out a breath. He realized he felt guilty, for two reasons. The first was minor: Harold had made the bed this morning, too. If they were going to be getting through a lot of changes of sheets this week…but that was easily fixed. The next time Harold took first shower, he’d get to work instead of waiting. The second reason was big. He wanted to push it to the back of his mind, to save undoing himself, but the fact remained that he was outrageously happy, and he didn’t deserve to be, and he would no doubt be paying for it soon.

 

\---

 

The Scrabble board, tiles and dictionary had all been cleared away. The last of the pumpkin pie was out on the table, along with some freshly made turkey sandwiches. John had just brushed his teeth in the bathroom, but at the sight of food his stomach growled and it didn’t really matter if he had to do them again. “Thanks, Harold.”

 

Harold moved differently somehow in the robe and sleep gear, or maybe it was just the loose fit of them, disguising the stiffness of his gait. He poured the last of the wine out, splitting it between them, then took a seat.

 

“I fed Bear. We ought to walk him tomorrow, no matter the weather.”

 

“What’s the forecast?” John looked over Harold’s shoulder at the now dark terrace. The snow hadn’t crept any further up the windowpanes since lunchtime, but that didn’t guarantee they wouldn’t be snowed in overnight.

 

Harold retrieved his cell from a pocket of his gown and turned it between his fingers. “This just says cloudy, 40 percent chance of snowfall. I thought I’d look up a more detailed prediction on my laptop.”

 

John abruptly realized Harold hadn’t used a computer for nearly thirty-six hours. The amount of undivided attention Harold had given him so far…it was humbling.

“Alright, but remember we’re on vacation. Don’t get drawn into anything.”

 

Harold’s lips quirked amusedly. “I’m not planning on working tonight.”

 

“Yeah, but I know you. You’ll just check the stock figures and fifteen minutes later you’ll have uncovered a major crisis and we’ll have to head back to the city.”

 

“Root is under strict orders to call me in the event of a major crisis.” Harold said very seriously.

 

John grinned, sipping at his wine to try to hide the fact. He could imagine how that conversation went.

 

“And _only_ then.” Harold added, reaching out to place his hand over the back of John’s on the table. John looked down, watching wordlessly as Harold stroked his fingertips down between John’s knuckles and back up to his wrist. Nobody except Jessica had ever touched him like that, just for the sake of touching. He spread his fingers and pushed them between Harold’s, linking their hands.

 

They ate one-handed after that, neither wanting to let go. The sandwiches disappeared fairly quickly and then John was forced to take his hand back to cut up what was left of the pie. He served Harold his portion, then lifted an eyebrow when he sat back down with his own, because instead of eating it, Harold presented a forkful to John. “Seriously?” He was slightly bemused, but Harold waited patiently with the fork aloft until John leaned forward and opened his mouth. The pie tasted pretty much the same as it had at lunchtime, maybe slightly worse because it was cold. But he was missing the point. Harold was watching him eat, and an open-mouthed smile was spreading across his face. He withdrew the fork and picked up another piece. John shrugged inwardly and ate from Harold’s fork again. After a few minutes of this, Harold let his hand fall and just gazed at John with twinkling eyes. John blinked and looked at the ceiling, his own plate forgotten. He was remembering from earlier, how Harold had revealed his cock and then pushed it into John’s mouth.

 

He made himself breathe slowly and met Harold’s gaze again. There was no shortage of feeling there. All this was so new. He couldn’t have guessed the way his heart would brim with it. It was a little overwhelming.

 

He got up from the table without consciously deciding to do it. “I’ll, uh…I’ll save this for later. I’m pretty full.” He snagged his own piece of pie and went to tidy it away. He busied himself with plastic wrap and rearranging the packed fridge.

 

By the time he felt able to face Finch again, Harold had eaten the rest of his own plate and his expression was more neutral. He stood, carrying his plate, cutlery, and empty wine glass towards the kitchen area, and John reached out for them. “I’ll take those. You go and get your laptop.”

 

“Thank you, John.” There was still something unbearably soft in Harold’s voice, but John managed not to shiver at it. He could handle this. He’d been dreaming of it for so long but the reality was so much more.

 

He dealt with the dishes and cleared the table and then flopped down on the couch in front of the television. Harold joined him shortly afterwards, laptop booted up and typing away. He had a window open of Root and Shaw’s location, and he also appeared to be doing a real estate search of his own. When John asked about the weather, Harold said “If we’re going for that walk, we ought to start out fairly early in the morning.”

 

“Fine by me.”

 

It apparently sounded good to Bear too, because he came bounding into the room and put his front paws on the back of the seat, panting happily. “Af, Bear.” He stood down on all fours and trotted around to John’s end of the couch. When no more objections came, he hopped up and shoved his hindquarters against John’s thigh. Then he started trying to roll onto his back where there wasn’t enough room. John rescued the remote before Bear could knock it onto the floor. He left it between his thigh and Harold’s, then lifted Bear’s lower half into his lap. Bear’s tail wagged vigorously when John rubbed at his tummy, which was clearly what he was asking for. The tail thwacked into Finch’s screen, so Finch moved the laptop further away.

 

John regretted not getting to spend as much time with Bear now that the detective cover job kept him away from their base. He was looking forward to tomorrow: they could play some of their old games, several of which doubled up as training missions. It would be good to test Bear’s scent tracking in the snow, in an unfamiliar environment.

 

Harold hadn’t moved so far away that John couldn’t lean to his right and rest his head on Harold’s shoulder. He’d meant to turn the tv on, but with his hands in Bear’s fur and Harold’s ever-flickering computer screen to watch, John found he didn’t need anything more to occupy him. As far as John could tell, Harold was keeping his promise not to delve too far into work, but algorithms constantly scrolled in background windows without Harold ever touching their code.

 

Reminded of observant, tireless machines, John had a second’s panic about his and Harold’s faces appearing in the same image, before he saw that, of course, Harold had taped off the camera. Everything was fine, they were safe here. In the unlikely event that danger found them, the weapons Root had hidden in a secret compartment of his suitcase would come into play. They weren’t completely unprotected out here.

 

Harold browsed for another thirty minutes or so, then closed the laptop. John blinked out of a waking doze. His eyes had stayed open but he’d stopped trying to take the scrolling text in. Bear was actually asleep, having rolled onto his side, his back to John, still stretched out over his lap. Harold reached for one of Bear’s feet and wiggled it a little, fondly.

 

“Looks like Bear needed a vacation too.” He remarked.

 

John sat up straight, weaving his neck from side to side and stretching. He dragged his hands back through his hair and linked his fingers at the back of his neck. He was embarrassed to find himself yawning. “Sorry,” he said to Harold, through the tail end of his yawn, without really knowing what he was apologizing for. He brought his elbows together in front and then dropped his hands to his stomach.

 

Harold patted John’s right knee. “That’s quite alright. I’ve seen you tired before, but never so relaxed.”

 

“Sex does that,” John quipped. Or at least, it was supposed to. His encounters with Kara had been anything but relaxing.

 

Harold’s hand withdrew. He turned it over and looked at his palm, and there was a long pause where John could only imagine Harold was thinking about having wrapped it around John’s cock a few hours before. It seemed suddenly awkward. Harold’s cheeks were flushing faintly pink.

 

John inwardly cursed his own careless speech. “Hey, it’s okay.” John sat up even straighter, turning his torso towards Harold’s, trying to meet his eyes and reassure him. In the process he accidentally jostled Bear, who woke up, rolled off, and lay down on the floor instead.

 

John placed his hand in Harold’s, guiding it down towards Harold’s lap. “This has been a big change…we can wait…”

 

Harold lifted his head. He smiled at John. “Oh, it’s not that. I was thinking how much more fun this war is going to be, now we have a ready means of stress relief.”

 

John’s worry melted away. He tightened his fingers around Harold’s hand and started to laugh. “Post-mission sex?”

 

“Pre-mission sex.” Harold supplied, beaming back at him.

 

“Thank-god-we’re-still-alive sex.”

 

“You-saved-my-life-yet-again sex.”

 

John nodded vehemently, remembering the sharp relief of real headlights coming towards him in the freezing dark. Harold’s gloved hands squeezing his numb shoulders, lifting him out of there with Fusco’s help. Involuntary tears sliding down John’s face in the backseat on the way to the hospital. Harold beside him, wadding up his scarf to soak up the blood. Urging him to be strong, to stay with them. And Carter’s lingering, comforting voice. _There are people who could love you. Just got to let them in._

 

He lifted Harold’s hand and kissed the inside of his wrist. “I’m really glad I told you.” What he’d realized that night…it had been too important to ignore.

 

It didn’t take a second for Harold to follow John’s thought process. “So am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are very much appreciated :)


	4. Friday 28th November 2014 - Harold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbjZPFBD6JU) I titled this fic after contains the line: _“Come away with me and we’ll kiss, on a mountaintop…”_

It was a wonderful thing, waking up with John beside him. Outside the windows, the dawn chorus had started up, a medley of cardinals and sparrows and robins and woodpeckers. Harold lay there listening to them, while also remaining aware of John’s sleeping presence in the bed, his steady breathing. He couldn't decide which sounds made him happier.

 

He dozed for a time, and then a murmur roused him. “Finch, you awake?”

 

Harold hummed and reached for John without  opening his eyes. John shifted under his arm and Harold brought him closer, fingers absently stroking his shoulder. He felt John settle in along the side of his body, eliminating all the space between them.

 

It was so easy, not being alone. How had he managed, these past few years, without this?

 

John slid his hand across Harold’s stomach and over his right hip, anchoring himself. Nothing more happened for several minutes, and Harold let himself drift, enjoying the simple contact through the fabric of his pajamas.

 

Then it occurred to him that they had made plans for this morning. He gave a short yawn, speaking as he did so. “What time is it?”

 

John was in a better position to check the clock on the wall. “Nearly half seven.”

 

According to last night’s forecast, there would be another heavy flurry of snow starting around midday. They wanted to explore the woods before that happened. “We should get moving.”

 

Neither of them moved.

 

“Bear needs his walk,” Harold tried again, attempting to guilt himself into action. John nodded and sat up, ever the disciplined soldier. Harold half wished John could have ignored him, insisted on prolonging the embrace. Before John could get out of bed, Harold pushed himself up as well. He touched the back of John’s head, stroking with his thumb in such a way that John turned to face him, halfway onto his knees. Harold leaned forward and kissed him, holding his head firmly in place until he’d made his point. He was promising more later. After the next snowstorm set in, they’d have plenty of time.

 

When they broke apart, John gasped. “No fair.” He touched Harold’s jaw and dove in for a second kiss, which Harold stopped before it turned into something they couldn’t resolve quickly.

 

“We need to get dressed,” he reiterated, squeezing John’s shoulders gently.

 

\---

 

An hour later, they’d had breakfast and were ready to go. Harold wrapped himself up in all his usual layers, his hat and scarf. He’d clipped Bear into his yellow service vest so they would be able to see him easily in the woods, even if he covered himself in snow. John had already gone out the front of the house to ensure the motorbike was securely covered.

 

Harold opened the rear door onto the veranda, Bear’s leash in one gloved hand. The cold air stung his cheeks and he shivered. He stepped outside, making the first footprints in the pristine layer of snow which covered the entire deck. The only thing that wasn't frozen was the little stream. It was flowing just quickly enough to ensure its own momentum, over rocks and through patches of ice. It made a pleasant trickling sound. Harold took in a deep breath of cool, refreshing mountain air. The weak morning sun made the tops of the snow-covered railings sparkle. He stood and just took in the surroundings for a minute or so, until Bear tugged at his hand. He glanced down at the dog fondly; they shared a happy moment.

 

He headed towards the water. The wide decking area extended the full length of the back of the house. Two sets of wooden steps lead off towards ground level, and he chose the nearest one. The whoosh of the sliding door closing meant Reese had finished with the bike, walked through the house and joined him out the back. Harold concentrated on getting down the steps. Bear navigated them with ease, skipping ahead of him. Harold limped cautiously down the first two steps. On the third, he encountered an icy patch under the snow and his foot slid sideways. He grabbed the railing tighter to keep himself upright, and then John was there too, steadying him. "You've got this." Harold retreated, tried again in a different spot and made it to the bottom with John's hand on his back.

 

John turned them to the right. "We'll go this way. You follow my steps, okay?" He strode off confidently.

 

They hiked up the rocky slope, along the bank, following the water upstream. John chose the route and Harold picked his way along in John's bootprints. Bear scampered along between them, occasionally getting distracted by passing squirrels, but well-behaved enough not to chase them until someone gave him permission. Every so often he sat and waited for Harold to catch up. When Harold struggled with the steeper inclines, John gave him a hand.

 

Harold's hip started to hurt again so they stopped in a small clearing to catch their breath. They let Bear off the leash to explore as he wished. John had brought a backpack along with him. Unbeknownst to Harold, John had prepared a thermos flask of tea for him. When he handed it over, Harold smiled at his thoughtfulness. While he drank, they stood looking down at the house, now some way below them. It nestled into the hillside, its red roof coated white. John bit into a chocolate bar. Harold tried to think of something clever to say, but there was no need, really. He put his arm around John's waist instead. John sighed contentedly and leant against him. Harold recalled what John had said back at the lake, about replacing bad memories with good ones. He wondered how many hikes John had been on as a soldier, how many times he'd hunkered down in a sniper's nest in the dark. He didn't want John to have a life like that, although to defeat Samaritan, much more of it would be necessary. Harold would have to adjust to this possessive feeling, this urge to lock John away and keep him safe. Although in truth, that had always been there. He was just more conscious now of its strength.

 

When Harold felt less sore, they went on. Bear trotted behind them, staying mostly within sight, occasionally pausing to dig things up. The way was less steep and John didn't march on ahead of him again, which made Harold feel better all round. He reached for John's hand and threaded their fingers together, and when he slipped or sank deeper than expected, John had hold of him at once, lifting him up. They crunched along side by side in the snow, and the sunlight made watery shadows of the bare tree trunks.

 

Their path was less meandering than it had been. He should have known John had a destination in mind, not just an aimless ramble.

 

Harold heard the general hubbub of people before the ski resort came into view. He sent a look of pure betrayed horror in John's direction, who just laughed. "Don't worry, Harold. I'm not going to push you down a slope head first. They do food here. I thought we'd have lunch."

 

He went on in ahead to grab a table, while Harold summoned Bear and reattached the leash, brushing most of the snow from his fur at the same time. He was glad of the service vest which meant he could take Bear inside. Embarrassingly, he had difficulty opening the heavy door with one hand, until someone on their way out opened it from the inside. He thanked them with his head bowed, not making eye contact, aware that the dog made him conspicuous enough already. What with the cold and the exertion of the morning, he didn't have to do much in the way of acting to exaggerate his limp.

 

He spotted John at a table in the far corner, where they could both sit with their backs to the wall. Cautious, even while on vacation. It seemed he'd already spoken to someone about Bear, because there was a bowl of water under the table when Harold got close enough to see.

 

John took the leash from Harold and tapped his knuckles between Bear's ears, while Harold set his hat on the table and shrugged out of his coat. When he sat down, John tugged the gloves from his fingertips and rubbed Harold's hands with his own. A little nervous about the public display, Harold glanced surreptitiously around, but nobody cared. No-one was watching them. Except, perhaps, for Samaritan.

 

"Can you see any cameras?" He muttered to John.

 

"One, behind the bar. We're out of sight of it. Besides, our covers are holding. Whistler and Riley are allowed to be in the same place, have been for two days. We'll be alright." He said all this in a voice so low that Harold could only just hear him, over the general chatter of the restaurant.

 

Harold took advantage of their proximity to briefly kiss the corner of John's lips. "Thank you."

 

John nodded and leaned his shoulder against him, but his eyes had been caught by something, his attention diverted. Harold tried to follow his gaze, but the place was busy. "You know I mentioned Helena works here? She just came in."

 

The explanation was timely. A blonde woman in blue waterproofs and ski boots suddenly made a beeline for them, waving. Harold sat back in his seat and adjusted his glasses. _Enough surprises_ , he groaned inwardly, then realized he was being uncharitable. It was only right that he get to meet the owner of the house, the person who had made their brief glimpse of domestic bliss possible. He was fighting that possessive streak again. He didn't want to share John's attention with anyone.

 

Helena was all smiles. "John! Glad you could make it."

 

John rose to greet her, squeeze her hand. Bear gave her a curious sniff then set his head back on his paws. He seemed to be having a well-earned rest.

 

"And is this your partner, the professor?"

 

"Harold Whistler." They shook hands. Harold stayed seated.

 

"What do you teach?"

 

"Economics, mostly. With a pinch of Science and Philosophy."

 

"Impressive. My husband's an archaeologist." Harold lifted his eyebrows, smiling politely. Thankfully, she didn't elaborate. "Is everything alright with the house? No signal blackouts, given the weather?"

 

Harold turned towards John for confirmation. "Not that we've noticed."

 

"I've been keeping him occupied," John said, winking at Helena.

 

Harold felt the back of his neck grow hot. He ducked his head and blinked rapidly. A momentary slide-show of sights and sensations flickered in his mind's eye. Under the table, he dug his fingernails into his knees.

 

Helena giggled at them. She tucked her chin over her shoulder in a flirtatious way. "I bet you have." Her phone went off in her pocket. She rolled her eyes and quickly silenced it. "Well, I'd love to stay and get to know you both better, but I have another group arriving in ten."

 

"Ohhh," Harold said, with a disappointed inflection meant to indicate he thought that was a shame, while inwardly rejoicing. John was flirting with her deliberately.

 

Helena bent to kiss them both on the cheek, then bustled off.

 

"She's lovely, isn't she?" John said cheekily, once she was out of sight.

 

Harold glowered at him.

 

When the waiter arrived, he asked: "Is anyone else joining you?" He must have seen Helena by their table.

 

Harold answered shortly "It's just the two of us, thank you."

 

John hid his grin behind his hand. When the young man had taken their orders and left, John said: "I like making you snippy."

 

Harold gazed down at the table. "Yes, I've noticed." They had known each other for four years, John had done it plenty of times.

 

John brought his mouth close to Harold's ear. "This is the first time I've known for sure that it's because you want me."

 

A mixture of indignation and arousal fought a brief battle in Harold's chest. John could be infuriating, but he was also right.

 

\---

 

The rest of their meal passed without incident. Bear was given some corned beef, Harold had the fish, John ate an enormous bowl of soup. Harold enjoyed watching his long fingers tear off chunks of bread to dip. In fact, he paid such close attention to the man that it wasn't until Reese went to the bar to settle up that Harold bothered to look out of the restaurant's windows. The sun had disappeared behind a thick bank of clouds, and snow was falling again, thicker and faster. Harold checked his watch. The forecast storm had arrived early.

 

When he returned to the table, Harold grasped John's forearm with some urgency. "Have you seen the weather?"

 

Their plan was to hike back down to the house again before the snow set in. Except now they had full bellies. Harold felt like having a snooze, not making a perilous trek through a blizzard.

 

John obviously had no such qualms. His response to the new development was: "Huh. We'll have to hurry."

 

He passed Harold his coat and took charge of Bear. Harold's hat, he scooped up from the table and put on his own head. It didn't really suit him, not with his otherwise casual outfit and backpack slung over one shoulder. Then he headed outside, leaving Harold behind again. He wished Reese would stop doing that. Harold struggled into his coat and scarf and hurried after him.

 

Harold stepped outside into a shock of cold for the second time that day. This time was significantly less pleasant. He was hampered by his glasses. Without the brim of his hat to catch them, snowflakes instantly fell inside the lenses, and his cloudy breaths quickly steamed them up. This was hopeless. His vision impaired, and the wind strong enough to send a blur of orange leaves swirling around him, Harold experienced a moment of fear, before he managed to clean his glasses on his scarf and shove them back on his nose again. He did so just in time to see a similar gust of wind whip the stolen hat from John's head. Reese made a grab for it, but Bear was quicker. John let go of his leash and watched Bear chase down the hat before it disappeared over the edge of the rocks. He caught it in his jaws and brought it back. Bear returned the hat to Harold, not John, because he was a good boy. Harold told him so, patting him gratefully while gathering up the dropped lead.

 

Sheepishly, Reese followed the dog back to Harold's side.

 

"I'd prefer it if you didn't race ahead without a care for my injury," Harold said, upset that he felt the need to point this out. In the first few years of their partnership, John had been patient automatically, without Harold ever having to ask.

 

Without taking it from him, Harold unzipped John's rucksack and put his hat safely inside, so it wouldn't be lost again. John shrugged and patted it.

 

One hand on John's shoulder, the other hand pressed sideways to his forehead to shield his eyes, Harold endeavored to change John's mind. "Why don't we get a taxi?" John looked crestfallen at this idea. Apparently the appeal of the walking adventure was blinding him to common sense. The wind was howling around them, and Harold had to raise his voice to be heard, even though they were standing close. "How many times did I almost slip getting up here? If you rush me, I'm sure to fall. I know it's more private to take the woodland route, but we can always get out a little early so the driver won't know exactly where we're going. And if they object to Bear, I'll tip extra to cover the costs. Please, Mr. Reese, it's the safest - "

 

He didn't get any further, because John pulled Harold's hand away from his face and kissed him passionately. Harold staggered back a pace, not expecting it, but the warmth of John's mouth was like a refuge from the cold, and he regained his balance with John's supporting arm around him. The snow pattered them, but with his eyes closed it hardly mattered. John had him and he wasn't letting go. Harold spared a thought for what they must look like, to anyone watching inside the restaurant, but felt very little concern. His primary emotion was joy. John's impulsiveness had its upsides. Harold freed his hand and stroked up and down John's back, gentling him. The kisses gradually became shorter and sweeter.

 

When Reese finally released him, Harold blinked up at him, slightly stunned.

 

John smiled, his hair and eyelashes flecked with snowflakes. "It's fine, we'll do it your way. I don't know what I was thinking. Hoping for a good excuse to carry you down the mountain, maybe."

 

\---

 

It took half an hour for the car to arrive. They waited inside in the warm and then got into the taxi, Harold first, Bear between them in the foot-well, resting his head on Harold's knee. Harold put his gloved hand on Bear's snout. After a moment’s hesitation, John discreetly set his hand on top of Harold's.

 

It was slow going in the storm. The windshield wipers screeched back and forth, furiously batting away the snow. The roads had been gritted but the new fall of snow was now covering up the grit, so that with every revolution of the wheels there was a crinkle and crunch.

 

Harold peered anxiously out of the windows, wondering what would happen if they got stranded in the snow.

 

But John wasn’t anywhere near as nervous about that as Harold was. All along his side, Harold could feel his partner almost vibrating with energy, which he gradually identified as excitement. Reese did not generally fidget, but at the moment his right foot was tapping, his calf occasionally brushing Harold’s.

 

Harold quietly asked him whether he was alright. John just nodded and kept doing it. Harold listened. Pause, tap, pause. A series of eight taps followed by two pauses and a final tap.

 

_Kiss me._

Harold flushed all over. The last time they’d communicated via Morse code, Harold had been stuck in a hotel room and John had been using a laser sight. He hadn’t expected John might use it again to flirt with him.

 

Harold moved his foot and pressed his heel on top of John’s shoe, pinning it to the floor, so that John knew he’d got the message. And that his answer was most certainly a no. He was still a very private person, and that did not include making out in the back seat of taxis, vacation or no.

 

John gave his hand a squeeze and then, with a shrug, he let go. As if to say, _it was worth a try_.

 

His easy withdrawal turned Harold on even more than the initial request.

 

He glanced at the driver, who was busy navigating the snow drifts, using the brakes frequently, concentrating hard on the roads and not his passengers. Now that John had planted the idea in his head, Harold’s imagination was running away with it.

He shifted lower in his seat, the gap between his thighs widening. Bear moved his head off Harold’s knee and lay down on the floor, facing the door.

 

Harold stopped putting pressure on John’s toes. He reached for the hand John had just pulled back and drew it into his own lap. He kept his eyes on the window, didn’t look down as John’s fingertips brushed gently over his fly. The barely perceptible touch sent a tingle down his legs, making his cold toes flex. It was less about the contact and more the knowledge that John’s hand was there.

 

He wasn’t hard, and didn’t want to be. Even once their ride was over, they still had a long trek back to the house through the snow. John understood this instinctively and only teased him, never pressing harder than a feather might have.

 

This went on for several minutes, until the taxi reached a slope it just couldn’t power up. John’s hand disappeared, as he told the driver he could let them out here. John opened the door, cold air flooded in, and the pleasant tingle of Harold’s arousal was lost in getting out of the seat. He had some trouble finding his balance in the deep snow and with slightly shaky knees. Bear helped him, and once the car was paid and gone, so did John, pressing his palm to Harold’s lower back and almost pushing him up the hill at his side.

 

His arm wound tighter around Harold’s waist as they walked on. The roads were slippery, while the terrain alongside them was rocky and full of hidden dips. It took a lot of concentration and help from Bear’s nose to safely find their way back.

 

\---

 

Unlocking the front door, Harold gave a relieved huff of breath and stamped his frozen feet. “That’s enough adventure for one day, wouldn’t you say, Bear?”

 

Bear shook the snow from his fur in what Harold took to be decisive agreement. He let the dog inside but kept his leash, heading for the kitchen area where he knew there was a stack of clean towels. He had one in his hand and was about to start drying Bear, when he looked round at John, who had shut the door behind them, put down his backpack and removed his boots. Harold held out the towel with a smirk. “You do it.”

 

John frowned in confusion.

 

Harold added “You’ve avoided your turn for over two and a half years. This game has to end sometime. Is Bear mine, or is he ours?”

 

The question caused John to swallow hard. He moved closer and took the towel, crouching to wrap it around Bear’s neck like a cape. “He was always ours,” John said, without looking at Harold. “I just didn’t want to…when we weren’t…”

 

Harold raised his eyebrows. “I see.” He wasn’t sure he bought that excuse. It seemed more likely John just preferred to make messes and leave the tidying up to someone else. Harold’s guilt for not having noticed John’s feelings sooner didn’t quite factor into the equation. Still, he watched with enormous satisfaction as John unclipped Bear’s yellow vest, then dried his paws, stomach, and tail. Bear submitted easily to this, licking John’s chin when they were done. He went to go curl up on the thick rug at the other end of the room.

 

Sitting back on his heels, John put his hands on his thighs and said to Harold: “Now, you.”

 

Harold blinked, not following. “What?” Or rather, refusing to follow.

 

John gestured behind Harold at the dining table. “Sit down, shoes off.” He stood and went to grab another towel from the pile, then crossed to the table and pulled out a chair for him when Harold didn’t move. It was John’s turn to issue the ultimatum, with a self-conscious smile. “Are you mine, or not?”

 

Harold sat. John undid his shoelaces and slid the shoes off, grip firm around the back of Harold’s ankles. He rolled up the ends of Harold’s damp trouser legs and pulled at his wet socks. Harold uttered a shaky “Oh!” when John bundled Harold’s cold feet up in the towel and dipped his head to kiss his bare toes. John didn’t stop there. He went on bathing Harold’s feet in kisses, humming with his own satisfaction.

 

Harold was sweating in his coat. The central heating was on and the difference in temperature between inside and outside was catching up to him. He needed a moment to remove his coat and catch his breath.

 

“John,” he said softly, splaying his fingers wide across John’s bent back. “Please get up now.”

 

 John touched his fingers to his own lips as he did as Harold asked. Harold could have kissed him, but held himself back. He stood, leaning heavily on the table, and he knew John could see the bulge of his erection now, framed by the tails of his vest.

 

“I think I need to lie down,” Harold admitted, swallowing thickly. He spoke to the hollow of John’s throat, unable to look him in the eye. “Would you get cleaned up and then warm the bed for us?”

 

“Yeah,” John said, a slightly dazed note in his voice, and he couldn’t resist patting Harold’s chest as he walked past him. Harold absorbed the contact with another twist of want, and then removed his glasses.

 

He set them on the table and shrugged out of his coat. This, he folded over the back of the chair, consciously taking a deep, slow breath. It had already been an eventful day.

 

\---

 

Harold got into bed in his undershirt and shorts. They curled up together under the covers, John being the big spoon, tucking his right arm around him. His left elbow slid between the pillows so he could pass his fingers through Harold’s snow-damp hair.

 

Harold yelped when John’s cold toes touched his ankle. “Sorry,” John muttered, amusedly, and started to move his foot away, until Harold shifted his leg and trapped it against his skin.

 

“We both need to get warmed up,” he pointed out, reasonably.

 

John seemed to take this as a challenge. His right hand travelled up and down Harold’s torso with a few quick movements, before tucking itself under the hem of Harold’s t-shirt, his knuckles pressing into Harold’s belly. Harold shivered, his cock twitching. If John were to fondle him, with cool hands…

 

John’s skin warmed quickly, pressed to Harold’s flesh. He didn’t continue down, but up, to roll one of Harold’s nipples between fingertip and thumb. Harold gasped, a needy sound which turned into a shaky sigh, his hips flexing back against John’s bulk. John switched to the other side and Harold felt pre-come trickle from his slit. His back arched. He tugged at John’s forearm, trying to direct him where he wanted to be touched, but John just pinched his nipple tighter, and Harold wailed. He tucked his own left hand under his waistband to tug at himself. Behind his ear, John muttered hoarsely “Yeah, go on,” and Harold’s hand moved faster until he came, rather quickly.

 

While Harold was still recovering, breathing quickly with his eyes closed, John swung his leg over him, turning Harold onto his back. Harold felt his t-shirt hiked to his underarms, John placing random kisses over his chest. He lifted his arms blindly, patting whatever parts of John he could reach.

 

The constriction around his shoulders became tighter - John tugging at his t-shirt. “Can I take this off?” Harold opened bleary eyes and frowned.

 

The past two days it had either been dark or he’d been almost fully clothed while they had sex. Harold didn’t know why he was so reluctant to show John everything. He had seen all of John, who had far more scars. John wasn’t going to care about the back of his neck. “Alright,” he said, at last, letting John help him sit up and pull the top off over his head.

 

John kissed him after that, his hands framing Harold’s shoulders. Harold remembered their kisses in bed this morning, which he hadn’t fully let himself enjoy, and sank wholeheartedly into this one, ignoring the stickiness between his thighs.

 

But John was paying attention, and after a few minutes of thorough, luxurious kissing, he shuffled backwards on his knees, taking the blankets with him. There was cool air on Harold’s bare stomach, and then John’s now-warm fingers stroking through the mess at Harold’s groin.

 

If his neck still moved that way, Harold might have thrown his head back. He settled for flopping into the pillows and kicking off his underpants, once John had pulled them far enough down his legs.

 

John climbed off the bed and fetched a towel, covering them both back up when he got in again. He sat down at Harold’s side, jacking his cock slowly with the soft, thick fabric, wiping his thighs, until Harold was dry and clean. Harold watched John licking his lips as he concentrated, his entire focus on Harold’s body, his comfort. _Good code_ , Harold thought, obscurely, then batted the words away.

 

“Lift your knees for me,” John requested quietly, so Harold did. John slid the towel beneath Harold’s backside, spreading it out flat.

 

“Are you going to…” Harold wondered, catching on as he put his feet back down, and John shrugged.

 

“Only if you want to.”

 

Harold grabbed his hand. “I do.”

 

John grinned lopsidedly, leaning down to kiss him again. Harold cupped the back of John’s neck and didn’t let him up for a while.

 

When he finally did, John stared down at him, braced on one arm, seemingly having forgotten where they were. Harold wiggled his eyebrows at him. John blinked rapidly and tore his eyes from Harold’s face, taking in the length of his body with a glance. “Right, condom.” He swung his legs out of bed again, this time making sure Harold wouldn’t get cold. He went to the dresser and returned with a foil packet and the bottle of lube. 

 

Harold eyed the size of John, erect as he walked, and shifted his legs wider apart with a gulp. He somewhat regretted teasing John about his shoe size yesterday.

 

Harold wasn’t the only one feeling nervous. He didn’t notice until John fumbled with the wrapper, peeling off a corner but then somehow dropping it on the bed. Harold’s mouth quirked fondly and he picked up the blue square, sitting himself upright and moving closer to the edge of the bed.

 

“Let me help you put this on.”

 

John’s sharp intake of breath let Harold know the offer was welcome. “Just…careful, I don’t want to…”

 

“Too soon,” Harold agreed, shaking the prophylactic out into his hand and starting to unroll it. He touched John as little as possible as he slid it up his shaft. John fell into parade rest, hands hooked behind his back, face blank, like he was zoning out just enough to keep his control. Harold traced his hipbone with a thumb when he was done.

 

They moved back into their previous positions with a minimum of fuss. John lay down at Harold’s back, and this time Harold could feel him shivering, as though any brush of skin might set him off.

 

“Have you done this before?”

 

Harold was about to protest that they’d done this the night before last, before he realized John was referring specifically to his being on the receiving end.

 

“I told you I’ve had male partners.”

 

“Doesn’t mean you’ve done everything,” John clarified, and Harold relaxed.

 

“It’s alright, John, you’re not going to hurt me.”

 

John took him at his word. He fingered him until Harold was fully hard again, and inclined to beg. With each thrust of his fingers, Harold couldn’t stop saying John’s name, hands fisted tightly in the pillows. Eventually he cried out “John, if you don’t -!” At which point the fingers were abruptly removed. Harold almost sobbed with relief. Then the greater intrusion, Harold forcing himself to stay relaxed. It hardly took any effort, because John had done the work.

 

“Ah!” He gasped when John’s cock bumped against his prostate. “Yes, there, right…” And then his mouth hung open, speechless with pleasure, because John began to _move_.

 

There was no need for John to say anything, his body did the talking. He fucked him - like he did anything - with total commitment. Throwing his whole body into it, holding Harold close and tight and dear. Pushing against the sweet spot inside Harold until he saw stars and fragments of code beneath his eyelids, spending across the sheets.

 

John stilled a moment later, with a rough jerk of the hips and a long slow exhale into Harold’s hair. “Finch,” he moaned, as the power in his frame dwindled, his body going limp.

 

Harold cradled John’s lax hand against his stomach as he tried to catch his breath, their chests heaving.

 

“Warm enough now?” John asked smugly, and Harold started to laugh.   


End file.
